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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469168">empty streets</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/airota/pseuds/airot'>airot (airota)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>League of Legends</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Guardian-Ward Relationship, M/M, Pining, Self-Denial, Soulmate-Identifying Marks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:14:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>35,363</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469168</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/airota/pseuds/airot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jericho Swain is twenty years old when his words burn their way onto his flesh, glowing like molten gold.</p><p>-<br/>In which Swain takes in Talon instead of Marcus.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cassiopeia Du Couteau/Talon Du Couteau, Emilia LeBlanc/Jericho Swain, Talon Du Couteau/Jericho Swain</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/15696480">Conviction</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/UncleTouchyLich/pseuds/UncleTouchyLich">UncleTouchyLich</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>soo this is a very self-indulgent fic where i take some (many) artistic liberties with canon, besides the obvious. (ie swain knows lb is still alive after the discovery of the black rose and now they're um.  enemies with benefits)</p><p>-</p><p>anyway, comments n kudos are greatly appreciated, enjoy</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jericho Swain is twenty years old when his words burn their way onto his flesh, glowing like molten gold.</p><p>Most people get theirs at birth, or at least before the age of five, but not him.  No, Swain has never been that lucky.</p><p>By the time he is ten years old, his parents tell him that perhaps it is a blessing that he does not have anyone, that it means he is in control of his own destiny, that even fate cannot decide for him what he must decide for himself.  He is meant to take pride in the absence of his mark, to revel in his independence, and so he tries.  Tries to hide his disappointment behind a stiff jaw and pursed lips.</p><p>He’d always felt like he’d been missing out on <em> something</em>, but never quite knew what.  It was easy though, in his younger years, to ignore it; recruits never had time for idle gossip, especially not about something as petty as a soulmark.  They were all too busy with the grueling training laid out for them by the empire.  Everyone who was someone enlisted in the army and Swain was no different.</p><p>His parents seemed proud of him for his stoicism, his wit, his <em> raw talent </em> for the intricacies of war and intrigue.  And so it was enough, for now.  Not having a soulmate suited his needs quite well:  no attachments, no distractions, nothing.</p><p>It was only when Marcus had met Soreana, and Swain witnessed that spark of realization, that burst of emotion, that its absence <em> truly </em> hit him.  He wondered what it would feel like, to have someone made for you, someone out there waiting just for <em> him </em>.</p><p>In time, the longing faded and there was nothing but a dull ache whenever he thought about it, resignation settling in after twenty long years.</p><p>But that evening, at one of his mother’s dinner parties, he feels the sharp sting of inevitability along the curve of his bicep and Swain quickly excuses himself to his room, stripping off the suffocating layers of cotton with a frantic sort of haste.</p><p><em> Get away from me</em>, the words say, and Swain doesn’t know whether to feel dread or relief.</p><p>-</p><p>They’re after him.  Ten years old, and Talon already has Noxian assassins tracking his every move, watching, waiting.  He has nobody, <em> nothing</em>, save the cold of the abandoned warehouse where he sleeps and the sharpened blade he keeps hidden in his sleeve.</p><p>During the day, Talon slips out with his hood pulled up and plucks fresh fruit or candied sweets from the crates of wealthy merchants.  Until the sun sets, he is safe, protected by vigilant eyes and bustling streets, but when night falls, he weaves his way through narrow alleyways and twisting streets, evading the countless assassins sent his way.</p><p>Any that manage to find him are left to rot in the gutter of the Noxian slums.  He deals with them with his own sort of graceful precision and as such, does not go unnoticed by the army’s leaders.  He detects them even more easily; their movements aren’t as concealed as they think they are and their eyes watch him with far less subtlety than they believe.  </p><p>Talon has been running for three whole years and not once has he been caught off guard.</p><p>That night, like many nights, Talon hides in the corner of the warehouse, catching as much sleep as he can before the nightmares and paranoia force him awake.  And when sleep evades him late that night, with the wind seeping through the gaps in the walls, Talon traces the elegant script of his soulmark as it trails across his hips.</p><p>
  <em> I’ve been looking for you for some time, boy.   </em>
</p><p>It is a reminder that <em> somewhere</em>, someone is waiting for him, someone that loves him.  That though he has no friends, no family, and no allies to speak of, he <em> will</em>.</p><p>-</p><p>He follows the boy to a dilapidated old storage facility on the very outskirts of the city, not far from the docks.  It’s raining now, and the shack before him shakes beneath the thunder and lightning; he wonders how the boy has survived here for so long, with the rats scurrying about and the cold snaking its way in through the cracks in the wood.</p><p>This is no place for a child, Swain thinks, frowning.  He was only a few years older than the boy when he was sent to the war front, battlefield stinking of decaying corpses, picked apart by crows.  But even then, Swain knew he had something to come home to, a place better than the hell of war.  This boy had <em> nothing</em>.  No guarantee of a meal waiting for him at the end of the day, no friends or acquaintances he could trust.</p><p>No place to go home to.</p><p>And maybe that’s why he’s here.  Pushing open the door to his ramshackle dwellings instead of killing him the moment they were out of plain sight.  Marcus had issued an order years ago:  that if this boy would not devote his skills to the army, then he was to be eliminated like all the rest who defied him.  He’d made his answer quite clear, if the trail of bodies were to be taken as a sign.</p><p>Noxus had no room for insubordination and by all means, Swain should put this boy down as recompense for the havoc he has caused, the loss he has incurred, but that isn’t why he’s come.  He’s come because he’s curious about this boy with no family and no siblings, who can tear apart thirty of Noxus’s most discrete and skilled killers.</p><p>When he steps inside, he doesn’t quite know what to expect, but not this.  Not a fragile young boy, with his shirt rucked up his chest, staring down at golden words, glowing, <em> glowing</em>.  It is so surprising, that he does not even notice the sharp sting of his arm.</p><p>-</p><p>His mark is burning.  His heart is racing, and his nerves are on edge and Talon doesn’t understand why.  His shirt is rucked up his chest as he stares down at his mark, glowing gold in the darkness of the warehouse, the words pulsing with heat.  He looks down at it with a mixture of anticipation and fear because he doesn’t know what it means, save that something is about to happen.</p><p>Still, it startles him when the door to his dwellings is pushed open and he’s met with the imposing sight of a man almost twice his height with broad shoulders and a black cloak that conceals his person.  Immediately, he drops his shirt and stumbles to his feet, sharpened blade out and pointed at the man before him.</p><p>He doesn’t know what to do here; he’s never been caught unawares like this, never been distracted enough to find himself without the upper hand and unable to think straight.</p><p>“Get away from me,” he says, words coming out far more panicked and anxious than he’d intended.  He backs away slowly as the man approaches him, slowly and calmly.  His tailored suit is too fine and his face too groomed for him to be one of the assassins sent by the empire, but it comforts him little in his addled state.</p><p>“I’ve been looking for you for some time, boy,” he says, and Talon’s eyes widen, because it’s him, this man twice his age, with thin frowning lips and raven-black hair.</p><p>“Are you with them?” Talon asks, slow and warily.</p><p>“With them? No, boy, I am nothing like them,” he says, stepping closer, and though Talon thinks that he should be safe with his soulmate of all people, years on the run and a life of danger and mistrust have him jabbing his blade in the man’s direction.  “I am not here to hurt you.”</p><p>“Then why are you here?” he asks, and the man crouches then, so they are on eye-level.</p><p>“To take you home,” he says.  Low.  Comforting.  No trace of malice in his tone. “You have been running for far too long.  Come with me, and you will run no more.”</p><p>And despite everything, he does.</p><p>-</p><p>Talon follows him to a mansion in the city, deep into the inner walls of the Immortal Bastion, where all the nobility and high-ranking officers dwell in Noxus.</p><p>The man fills his belly full of steaming vegetables and roasted pork and Talon doesn’t think he’s ever eaten so quickly and so much in his life.  He gives him a room to himself, one with a fireplace and without any holes in the wall.  His bed is covered in warm furs and feather pillows and his bathroom is filled with scented soaps and blessed with warm water.  All of it is so unfamiliar to him: warmth, safety, kindness.</p><p>The stranger introduces himself as Swain and when Talon finds himself in bed—his own bed, now—he whispers the name into the darkness and wonders if this will last.</p><p>-</p><p>It’s been weeks since the boy—Talon—started living with him, and Swain has told no one.  The child is of Noxus and as such, must dedicate himself in service of the empire, but for all intents and purposes, he is still a rogue agent, loose on the streets.  But Swain can’t bring himself to tell anyone, to surrender him to the harsh conditions of the army, especially not so soon after he’s given him a home.</p><p>He looks happy here, and he can see Talon’s gaunt figure fill out into something less frighteningly thin.  The boy has only just started to look at him without trepidation in his eyes, like all of this could disappear in the blink of an eye.  He speaks little, still, but gives Swain soft smiles and little thank-yous after every meal, and each moment softens his heart just a little more.</p><p>Their days are spent rather quietly.  Darkwill had halted military expeditions for the winter, and as such, Swain was allowed ample time to himself at home for the first time in years.  He often finds himself reading in his study, and though Swain has allowed Talon free roam over the premises, he spends most of his time curled up by the fire beside him.</p><p>Talon had avoided touching him for the entire time he’d stayed in his estate, which is why it’s such a surprise when on one evening, the boy settles down beside him on the lounge and leans into him, hugging the arm that bears his burning soul mark with a grip that says please, that begs him not to throw him off, to throw him out.</p><p>But Swain only stiffens, unused to this sort of contact, and keeps his eyes steadily trained on the crisp pages of his book, seeing, but not reading.  He never sought this sort of comfort from his parents, but he supposes that his upbringing wasn’t exactly normal, and neither was Talon’s.  He gives the boy a tight-lipped smile that he intends to be comforting, but probably isn’t and hopes he doesn’t scare the boy away.</p><p>It doesn’t.  His eyes sparkle with something like joy and graciousness as he loosens his grip and rests his head against Swain’s shoulder.  Eventually, he manages to relax, but all he can think about is the boy’s cheek pressed against his mark and how he should give this boy a schedule, if only to teach him some discipline and respect and give him something else to do, rather than distract him so.</p><p>By the time dinner time has come, Swain realizes he hasn’t turned the page once.</p><p>-</p><p>Talon still dreams of the streets, sometimes.  Of bloodied blades and rotting corpses and bodies dumped beside the docks, of being on the run, of hiding from everyone.  He dreams of being caught off-guard, like Swain did him, and being gutted and left to rot in the streets, like every other unfortunate soul who just wasn’t strong enough.</p><p>Sometimes, he dreams of Swain, of what could have happened if he weren’t so kind, if he were just another one of the assassins sent to bring his head back to the empire.  He wonders if, perhaps, that is still a possibility.  Swain does live in the inner city, and the way he carries himself reminds him of a highborn commander.</p><p>But Swain is different.  He is gentle and refined and nothing like the brutish, pathetic creatures that came after him in the dead of night or in the menacing crowds.</p><p>Talon doesn’t know much about him, still.  All he knows is that he reads often and lives alone.  He seems like an important man, if the constant inflow of letters from members of houses Talon vaguely recognizes is anything to go by.</p><p>Life is good, too good, Talon thinks.  Swain asks nothing of him, just gives him everything he desires, lets him roam the grounds freely, so long as he does not leave.  Not that he wants to.  Outside is dangerous, outside they’re looking for him, outside he’s alone.  He keeps waiting for it to be over, for the man’s well of kindness to dry up, leaving him starving and afraid once again.</p><p>On one afternoon, Swain asks him if he would like to go the market with him.  He is hesitant, at first; he doesn’t want to be seen, to leave the comfort of Swain’s home, but the man seems to notice, because he kneels down again to reassure him that Talon will be safe with him, that nobody will hurt him while he’s there.</p><p>Slowly, he nods in assent, and Swain smiles—that stiff, tight-lipped smile he does, like the motion is foreign to him.</p><p>They ride out with the sun still high, Talon’s arms wrapped tightly around Swain’s waist and cheek pressed flush against his back.  He wonders then, if he will ask him to let go or retract his offer to take him out, but Swain only stiffens and says nothing.</p><p>When they get there, Talon clings to Swain’s sleeve, careful not to get lost in the crowd of gossiping ladies and busy workers.  As they pass by stalls filled with colorful fruits, the likes of which Talon has never seen before, Swain absently tells him about what colors signify ripeness and what blemishes to avoid.  He explains the marbling of meats that Talon has never had the pleasure of tasting before they’d met, and most of it goes over Talon’s head, but he listens intently anyway.</p><p>“Master Swain!” a voice calls from behind them, and Swain freezes for a moment before turning to the young woman who comes out of the crowd.</p><p>“Amelia,” he greets, with that almost-smile.  The girl is pretty, with dark hair and dark eyes that look at him with curiosity before swinging back to his guardian.</p><p>“Master Du Couteau has requested your presence at his dinner party tomorrow evening,” she says.</p><p>“Has he?” Swain says dryly. “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.  I am...” He glances briefly at Talon, who stares up at him with a hint of confusion. “Preoccupied.”</p><p>“Ah, I see,” she says cheerfully, despite the twinge of her lips. “Marcus will be quite displeased.”</p><p>“As expected.  In any case, give him my regards.  Goodbye, Amelia,” he says dismissively.  And with that, he turns, Talon trailing close behind.</p><p>“Who was that?” Talon asks, once they’re out of sight.</p><p>“A servant,” he says, with a hint of distaste. “From one of the generals.”</p><p>“Oh,” Talon breathes, and Swain says no more.</p><p>-</p><p>The knock at the door, not hours later, is expected.  What he does not expect is for Talon to open it.</p><p>“Where is your master, boy?” Swain can hear Marcus’s hearty voice drifting in from the foyer, and he hurries into the room as quickly as he can before anything else can happen.  Marcus will know, and he is not one to let something go without sucking as much information as he can about it.</p><p>“I am here, Marcus,” Swain says sternly.  Talon meets his eye guiltily and Swain can’t help the frown the slips onto his face. “Go to your quarters, boy.”</p><p>He scurries off quietly, Marcus’s eyes following him until he disappears down the hall.</p><p>“I didn’t know you had a servant, Swain.  I thought you disliked having others do things for you,” Marcus drawls knowingly, an eyebrow arched. “Or maybe he’s something else?  I didn’t think you were one for illicit affairs.”</p><p>“He is not my son, Marcus.  Now come.  Let us talk somewhere more private.”</p><p>-</p><p>“So, if he’s not your son, then who is he?” Marcus asks, slipping off his coat and draping it across the chair.  He exudes an air of casualty, though his eyes watch him carefully, keen to see any sign of weakness, any hint of the truth.</p><p>But Swain is neither a liar nor a fool, and he knows that whatever he says, Marcus will find out the truth and they will both suffer the consequences eventually.  He takes a seat at his desk, folding his hands over each other.</p><p>“That boy you mentioned, not five weeks ago.  The one you sent Nathan after.”  Marcus narrows his eyes but bids him continue. “I looked for him.  And I found him.”</p><p>“And you brought him in.  Without telling anyone.  Without telling <em> me</em>.”</p><p>“I did not think it prudent.”</p><p>“You did not think it <em> prudent</em>,” Marcus repeats, incredulous. “Swain.  We’ve been after him for years.  He’s killed… how many?  And you did not think it ‘prudent’ to let me know?  Stop by, send a raven, perhaps?”</p><p>Swain sighs and barely resists rolling his eyes at Marcus’s theatrics. </p><p>“Yes, Marcus.  I did not think it prudent.”</p><p>“Well surely he must serve,” he says, settling down into a cushioned leather seat. “His skills are useful, and he must pay for what’s done, if you will not kill him.”</p><p>“No,” he blurts out, standing, before his thoughts have caught up with his mouth.  He doesn’t know why he says it and the words seem to surprise even Marcus, his closest friend, Marcus, who knows him best.</p><p>“No?  Then what would you have us do with him?” He seems amused, now, and Swain can hear the devilish grin in his tone, though it doesn’t show on his face. </p><p>“Train him,” he says, lips moving of their own accord. “Alongside your daughters.  You said his skills are useful, so why waste them among the recruits?”</p><p>Marcus hums, then, and smiles as if he’d gotten exactly what he came here for.  As if he knows far more than what Swain wants him to know.</p><p>“Very well.  Then he must meet them at once!  How is tomorrow?  Tomorrow evening, perhaps.”</p><p>Swain rolls his eyes and looks down at his friend’s pleased smile.</p><p>“Yes. Fine,” he says, hoping, in vain, that this will satisfy him.  He is wrong, of course.</p><p>“So why, exactly, did you decide to take him in?  Instead of… you know.  Putting him out of his misery.  Lord knows the boy deserves it.”</p><p>Swain frowns.</p><p>“He is a child, Marcus.  Surely you have some ounce of pity left in you.”</p><p>“Perhaps, but I didn’t think <em> you </em>did.  So what’s so special about him?”  And for once, Swain has no answer, because even he doesn’t know.  Doesn’t know anything beyond the pulsing of his words and the stubborn threads of fate that drew him to the boy.</p><p>“I don’t—I don’t know,” he admits, softly, mostly to himself.  Marcus looks pleasantly surprised at that, pleased that for once he’s rendered Jericho Swain at a loss for words.</p><p>“But you are fond of him?”</p><p>“I… I care for him, yes.  He did not belong out there.”</p><p>“What is this?  Jericho Swain caring about something other than his career and our glorious nation?  What’s next?  Darkwill actually listens to my counsel?  Katarina obeys my commands?”</p><p>“Marcus.”</p><p>“Yes, yes, anyway.  I must be going.  It was nice seeing you again, since you insist on holing yourself up in this lonely little hovel.  I will see you tomorrow evening.  With your boy in tow, I expect.”</p><p>“Yes,” he acquiesces, before leading him out of the office, and when he opens the door, Swain swears he hears the faint echo of footsteps down the hall. “We will see you then.”</p><p>-</p><p>It is late at night, when he hears the knock at the door, quiet—too quiet.  Swain rolls out of bed, feet touching the cold floor despite the fireplace burning hot before him.</p><p>“Talon?” he murmurs, as he opens the door.  The boy looks up at him with wide eyes, before wrapping his arms around his waist and catching him terribly, terribly off guard. “What is it, boy?  What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Don’t send me away,” he says, face pressed into his abdomen. “I don’t want to go with him.”</p><p>“I’m not…” Swain places his hands on the boy’s shoulders, taken aback, and separates them, so that Talon looks up at him with tears in his eyes. “I am not sending you away, boy.  But you will meet with Master Du Couteau's daughters and you will train alongside them.”  Then, reluctantly, he adds, “I have coddled you for too long.”</p><p>“Do I have to?” Talon asks, pleading. </p><p>“Yes,” he says, in as stern a tone he can muster. “If you are to stay with me, that is.  Noxus tolerates neither laziness nor cowardice, and neither do I.”  Even as he says it, a part of him wishes to comfort the boy, and assure him that everything will be alright, but he doesn’t know how.</p><p>The boy frowns and Swain kneels down before him, like he did, not weeks ago.  With the sleeve of his nightshirt, he wipes away a fleeting tear and grips the child’s arm, not unkindly.</p><p>“Do you trust me?” he asks.  Talon sniffles.  Looks at him for a moment, discerning.  Slowly, he nods.  “Then trust that you will be okay in my care.  That no harm will come to you while I am here.  But you must be brave for me.  Do you understand?”</p><p>Again, he nods, this time with more confidence and a sort of determination written across his gentle features.  Swain stands then, ready to send him back to his room, but before he can, Talon’s smaller fingers tug at his sleeve.</p><p>“Can I stay?” he asks.  Timid, again, like he’s afraid he’s going to be thrown out.  Despite his words of bravery before, Swain can’t find it in him to say no.</p><p>-</p><p>Before the party, Swain gives him an old, tailored suit from his childhood and Talon slips it onto his thin figure with ease.  When he comes out of his room, Swain gives him an appraising look and fiddles with his tie before nodding his head in approval.  The gesture has Talon’s chest swelling with pride, and he can’t help the smile the spreads wide over his lips as he follows Swain into the carriage the stranger had sent for them.</p><p>“Remember,” Swain tells him, as they reach the steep, imposing steps of the unfamiliar manor, “sit up straight and do not slouch.  Show some respect.  Do not speak out of turn.  Not until everything is sorted out.”</p><p>Talon nods, though he doesn’t quite understand what Swain means.  He doesn’t know what slouching is and certainly doesn’t know what Swain means by ‘everything’.  He does, however, understand enough to be quiet, so as they approach the doors, Talon puffs out his chest and keeps his lips sealed.  He wants to make Swain proud, wants to see that brief nod of approval directed at him once all this is over.</p><p>“Master Swain, it’s good to see you,” says the servant that opens the door.  She leads them inside the vast mansion.  </p><p>The place is extravagant in way that screams wealth.  It’s so much different from the immaculate walls of Swain’s home, where only old family portraits and intricate maps grace the walls.  Here, the walls are covered in eccentric paintings, depictions of the human figure in various acts that make Talon look away with a flush.  Each room is tastefully decorated and nothing is out of place, even with the guests already filling the home.</p><p>When they enter the sitting room, everyone turns to stare and Talon has to force himself not to shrink into himself, unused to such attention.  He sees the man from before--Master Du Couteau, he reminds himself--standing in the center of the room, a flute of champagne in hand, and a woman with dark red hair on his arm.</p><p>“Marcus,” Swain says, nodding curtly.</p><p>“Swain!  You’ve come,” he says, mirthfully.  Marcus hands his glass to a servant before waltzing over to them, and as he approaches, Talon can’t stop himself from taking hold of Swain’s sleeve.  “And what is your name, boy?”</p><p>Marcus’s gaze is piercing, and Talon looks up at Swain before responding.  He gives him a soft nod.</p><p>“Talon,” he says, loudly and confidently, stepping out from behind Swain, but not letting go.  It seems amuse Marcus, because he only laughs and looks at Swain with something Talon can’t quite recognize.</p><p>“The Raven’s talon.  Curious,” he says, and though he doesn’t know it means, Talon blushes again ever so slightly. “Katarina.  Cassiopeia.  Here.  Now.”</p><p>When he calls, two girls come trailing after him with traces of annoyance clear on their faces.  The elder has red hair, like the woman from before, while the younger has her father’s dark curls.  Both share their father’s knowing green eyes, gaze sharp and vaguely unsettling.</p><p>“Girls.” Marcus’s voice is stern, and the dark-haired girl rolls her eyes.</p><p>“Kat,” the redhead says, smiling tightly.</p><p>“Cass,” the other says, mirroring her elder sister, except her smile is darker, more sinister.  It sets Talon on edge, but he is reminded of Swain’s words, so he only smiles back and introduces himself in kind.  He notices the words curling around her neck, reminding him vaguely of a snake getting ready to crush its prey.</p><p>At that, Marcus is satisfied.  He claps Swain on the back, saying something about tasting an Ixtali vintage he’d just had imported and gesturing towards the kitchen.  Swain looks at him, then.</p><p>“Why don’t you stay here, Talon?  Get to know the girls,” Marcus suggests, in a way that makes it clear it isn’t <em> really </em> a suggestion.  Talon’s eyes flit to Swain’s.  He puts a hand on his shoulder then, squeezing just a bit.</p><p>“I’ll only be a moment,” he reassures him, and Talon nods, because he wants to be brave for him, wants to make him proud, wants to show that he was worthy of his kindness. “Go.”</p><p>He follows the girls out of the sitting room and into what looks to be a sparring room.  It’s mostly empty, save for the racks of dangerous weapons mounted upon the walls and lying in glass display cases.</p><p>“So who are you?” Cass asks, as soon as the door’s shut.  She circles him, like a wolf circles its prey, and Talon’s left feeling incredibly vulnerable and very much wishing Swain was still here.  Katarina is still standing in front of him, arms crossed, bored, like this is just some ritual Cass does with everyone.  Suddenly, he feels her fingers trailing across the smooth fabric of his sleeves, and Talon flinches.</p><p>Kat raises an eyebrow at that and Talon meets her eyes boldly, despite the fact.  He wants to stop her, grab her wrist and break her fingers, and he knows he <em> could</em>.  He grits his teeth instead.</p><p>“I told you my name already.”</p><p>“I <em> know</em>, but where did you come from?” she asks, and she’s so close that he can feel her breath against the back of his neck.  Talon only frowns. “You old Jericho’s love child or something?  That’s what Father says.  Didn’t know he had it in him honestly.”</p><p>Katarina frowns.  “Cass.  Stop.”</p><p>There’s a pause, and then she withdraws her fingers, stepping away.</p><p>“Fine.  But I’m still curious.”  She slinks away into the shadows, leaning against the wall.</p><p>“So how old are you?” Kat asks, giving him a small smile.  She sits down and gestures for him to sit too.</p><p>“I— I don’t know.”</p><p>“You don’t know?  How—” She stops.  He feels like he’s let her down somehow, even though he owes her nothing.  “How did you and Swain… meet?”</p><p>He doesn’t know how much he should tell her or if he should even trust her, but something about her demeanor loosens his tongue in a way that he can’t quite comprehend.</p><p>“He found me,” he says.  Cass scoffs at that.  He ignores her and continues. “I was by myself, for a while.  Until he took me in.”</p><p>Kat hums.</p><p>“I always thought Swain was kind of a loner,” she says, but it’s not disparaging.</p><p>“I don’t really know what he’s like,” he admits.</p><p>“So why did you go with him?”</p><p>“He—” Talon cuts himself off.</p><p><em> He said my words, </em> he thinks.  It’s the truth.  Never in his life has he trusted someone as easily and quickly as he did Swain and he’s not even sure quite what it means— just that he trusts Swain more than anything in this life, more than his hands, his senses, for reasons he can’t and doesn’t want to explain.</p><p>“He was kind,” Talon says, instead. “When nobody else was.”</p><p>Katarina nods sagely and looks solemnly at the floor.  They sit there for a little bit, in silence, before Kat starts asking him about what life was like <em> before</em>, and he tells her everything, from the cold hard floors of the places he used to hide out in to his days spent scavenging for food in the markets.  She listens intently, while Cass eyes him from the shadows.</p><p>She tells him a little about her life: about her father’s high status in the military and her duties as his daughter. “He thinks I’m not good enough yet,” she spits with no small amount of bitterness. “Not ready.”</p><p>She tells him stories about her father’s accomplishments as General, of his legendary stealth and prowess.  He is master of all Noxian assassins, dealing death from the shadows.  It makes Talon <em> think</em>.  He frowns.</p><p>(It makes <em> her </em>think, too.)</p><p>“So.  What were you running from, exactly?” Cass interrupts, suddenly.  Somehow she’s found her way behind Talon without him noticing, walking her fingers across his shoulders until they graze his neck.  The contact makes him shudder and Talon swears he hears her giggle as he shakes.</p><p>“Who said anything about running?” he spits.</p><p>“Well you must have been running from something, right?” When he doesn’t answer, she prods him further, taunting. “I thought even <em> poor people </em> have homes.  Or maybe your parents just abandoned you.  Didn’t want a scrawny little weakling for a son, I guess.”</p><p>“I’m not scrawny,” Talon says, and he can feel his face getting red, hear his voice rising despite himself. “And don’t call me weak.”</p><p>“Why? You <em> look </em>weak.”  He can hear the grin in her voice and all it does is make him angrier.</p><p>“I’m not <em> weak.</em>  I— I’ve—”</p><p>“You’ve what?  <em> Killed someone? </em>  You couldn’t hurt a fly if you wanted to.”</p><p>“I have.  I did.  I had to.”</p><p>Katarina narrows her eyes.  Talon looks to the ground.</p><p>“You had to.”</p><p>“They were <em> after </em> me.”</p><p>“Aha! So you <em> were </em> running,” she says, unbelievably smug. “I knew it.  You’re the kid Father’s been looking for for <em> years</em>.  I thought you’d be taller.  And more dangerous.”</p><p>At that, his frown deepens and he clenches his fists, nails digging into the palm of his hand.  He doesn’t know whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing that she knows now, but for some reason, letting Cass know anything seems like a bad idea.</p><p>“So where, exactly, did Swain find you?” Cass asks, settling down beside him, her arm pressed against his.  He scoots away.</p><p>“Nowhere,” he grits out.</p><p>“Hm, well he couldn’t have just found you by chance.  I knew Swain was lonely, but I didn’t think he would sink <em> this </em> low.  I mean, a child?”</p><p>Talon clenches his fist and bites his tongue.  She leans onto him and he barely resists the urge to throw her off of him.</p><p>“I guess that’s to be expected.  I guess at thirty years old you get a bit lonely,” she drawls, right into his ear. “Imagine.  Thirty years old and <em> all alone</em>.”</p><p>He doesn’t know why that sets him off— just that it does, and that Cassiopeia is on the floor, hands clutching her nose, screaming, as Katarina bursts into cruel laughter.</p><p>“Are you fucking crazy?” she shrieks.  “I was just kidding!”</p><p>The door swings open, then, revealing Swain’s towering figure and Marcus’s unsurprised frown.  Kat’s mouth snaps shut and she straightens up, crossing her arms.</p><p>“Father!  He <em> punched </em> me!” Cass screams, getting to her feet and clutching Marcus’s arm while jabbing an accusatory finger at him.</p><p>Talon looks to Swain and the disappointed look he gives him makes Talon want to curl into himself and hide.</p><p>“Come here, boy,” he says sternly.  “Explain yourself.”</p><p>“I— she—” he stammers, but it’s as if he’s frozen, because no words come out and his feet won’t move from their place on the wood floor.</p><p>“Cass said he was weak and he wasn’t.  That’s all,” Kat says nonchalantly, like that’s enough of an explanation.  Marcus hums and says <em> something</em>, but Talon’s not listening, just stares at the floor so he doesn’t have to feel the burn of Swain’s gaze on his face.  He can hear them arguing around him, but their voices fade into nothing when he feels Swain’s steady hand on his shoulder.</p><p>“Look at me,” Swain commands, and Talon’s helpless against his will.  He doesn’t look angry, just <em> sad </em>, and it only makes the guilt in his chest swell even more.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, quiet so only Swain can hear it.  He sounds like he’s about to cry and he <em> hates </em> it.  He is not weak.  He’s <em> not</em>.  </p><p>“This does not happen again,” Swain says:  a statement, not a question. “Do you understand?”  Talon nods— anything to keep him from being angry. “You represent <em> my </em> house now.  You must show restraint.  Discipline.  Your emotions do not control you.  Is that clear?”</p><p>“Yes— yes, sir,” he amends.</p><p>“You will stay with me, so long as you serve under Master Du Couteau.  You will visit him throughout the week for training and you will carry out his commands.  Yes?”  He nods without thinking, desperate for his approval, and Swain stands, satisfied.</p><p>“And boy?”</p><p>He looks up, lashes to the sky.</p><p>“We do not concern ourselves with idle gossip.”</p><p>-</p><p>The boy is eager to please, Swain notices.  Perhaps too eager.  It reminds of himself, once, until he exposed his parents for the treacherous vipers they were.</p><p>-</p><p>“I see you found yourself an heir,” LeBlanc drawls.  </p><p>Swain’s eyes snap open and he shoots up, only to find Emilia sitting, legs crossed, on his dresser.  The moonlight streams in through the drapes, casting her pale form in ethereal light.  She’s wrapped in her usual <em> suit </em>--if you can call it that--her flawless skin exposed just for him.  She reveals herself to nobody save her traitorous compatriots and even then, she speaks through dreams and projections.  </p><p>Swain has not seen her in months.  He is not even certain she is here now and though he will never admit it, he is sure she knows— enjoys it even.  </p><p>“Did I startle you?” she asks, as if she cares.  He ignores the question.</p><p>“What are you doing here?  You know you’re not welcome here,” he says, but the remnants of sleep make him complacent.</p><p>She hums, slipping off the dresser with grace, stepping towards him soundlessly.  He watches her with a mixture of unease and awe;  LeBlanc is nothing if not seductive, ageless beauty drawing in even him, but she is still <em> LeBlanc</em>, the pale sorceress, the mistress of the Black Rose, and she will <em> always </em> be dangerous.  </p><p>She settles down above his lap, thighs resting on either side of him, and she’s warm--too warm to be a clone, or so he thinks.  She lifts his chin to meet her gaze, deceptively delicate fingers drawing him in.  Emilia caresses his cheek, soft and almost affectionately.  She smiles and it’s lovely, <em> perfect</em>.  Too perfect.</p><p>“I was curious,” she murmurs. “I never imagined you with children, Jericho.”</p><p>“I didn’t either,” he admits, despite knowing the danger in letting LeBlanc know anything, but it’s late at night and her body is enticingly warm, her heated gaze loosening his tongue.  He brings a hand to her waist, thumb stroking exposed flesh. “But he needed me.”</p><p>“He needed you?” she asks, voice light.  She brings her hands lower, leaving them to rest on either side of his neck.</p><p>“He was alone.  An orphan.”  He gazes up into her dark eyes, and he swears she could drown him in them if she wanted.  He supposes she does— want him dead, that is.  But she can’t kill him, not now, and he cannot kill her either.  So here they are, sharing each other's bed, as mortal enemies shouldn’t.</p><p>“You know of countless orphans, Jericho,” she whispers, breath hot against his lips.  “Have orphaned thousands yourself, and never have you felt compelled to take them in.”</p><p>She’s right, and perhaps he’s let on too much, but he indulges her further still.</p><p>“He had no one,” he says only.  <em> And neither did I, </em> he thinks.</p><p>She hums.  Her hands glide downwards, exploring the broad expanse of his chest, and there’s a glint in her eyes when he leans into her touch.</p><p>“Tell me,” she says, lowering herself onto his lap.  Her lips ghost over his, just out of reach. “What is so special about him?”</p><p>She rolls her hips against his, relishing in the way he bucks up into her heat.  His breath quickens, and Swain grows tired of this nonsense.  He supposes she thinks the boy is his long-lost son as well, but she will be disappointed as Marcus was.  He has nothing to hide here, not concerning the boy.</p><p>“Enough,” he says, gripping her hips and grinding up against her.  She lets out a soft moan, elegant and practiced, and leans forward so that their foreheads touch.  He catches her lips before she can let out another sound, drinking in her moans.  Eventually she pulls away, their lips less than in inch away.</p><p>“Like I said,” she starts, breaths slightly labored. “I was curious.  So I went and found out myself."</p><p>Swain stops, narrowing his eyes and frowning.</p><p>“What—”  She silences him with a kiss that he doesn’t reciprocate and she smiles knowingly against his lips.</p><p>She moves her hand, stopping it just atop his bicep, where his words are scrawled across scarred flesh, and <em> squeezes</em>.</p><p>“<em>Get away from me, </em>” she echoes, devious smile on her lips, taunting. “How sad, Jericho.  But you found him at last, didn’t you?”</p><p>His eyes widen, and never in the past eight years has she gotten him worked up, much less <em> panicked </em> , like he is now, heart pounding in his chest, blood rushing through his ears.  He pushes her away, forcing some space between them, but she stays on his lap, <em> watching </em>, always watching for any sort of weakness, any crack in his impenetrable aura of stoicism.</p><p>“Such a waste,” she says, with a sigh. “To have him ripped away from you the moment you’d found him.  He was <em> so </em> pretty when he screamed.”</p><p>He acts then, hands moving of their own accord, and in an instant, Swain has a steady hand wrapped around her fragile neck and pushing her down into the mattress.  She gasps, suddenly, but her smile is still there, vile and full of malice.</p><p>“You lie,” he spits, but it comes out desperate and pleading, and LeBlanc knows she’s won. “You’re <em> lying.”</em></p><p>He tightens his grip around her throat, but she only laughs, the melodious sound corrupted by her wheezing.  Her hands find their way to his, and she <em> pulls</em>, but he’s stronger than her and her fragile arms are nothing to his decades in the army.</p><p>“<em>I’ve been</em>—” she gasps, staring up at him with wide eyes. “<em>looking—” </em>And he squeezes again, crushing her throat.</p><p>She disappears in a puff of smoke, leaving only faint glimmers of light and cruel laughter in her wake.</p><p>-</p><p>“Boy,” he says at first, but his voice rises as his panic becomes more difficult to contain. “Boy!”</p><p>When he rushes to Talon’s room afterward, he finds it ajar and his heart races in his chest.  <em> No, no, no.  </em> The words loop around in his head, and he can’t think straight, beyond the boy, and when did he start caring so <em> much</em>?</p><p>“Boy—” He bursts through the door, rushing to the bed.</p><p>“Swain?”  He exhales; Swain hadn’t even noticed that he’d been holding his breath.  The boy is sitting up in his bed, rubbing the sleet from his eyes. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Nothing,” he whispers.  Then less shaky— “It’s nothing, child.  Go back to sleep.”</p><p>He turns to go, but he feels a soft hand on his own.  Talon’s staring up at him, brows creased in confusion.</p><p>“What happened?” he asks, and Swain opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.  It hits him suddenly.  He wants to keep this boy safe forever, would do anything to protect him, would <em> give </em> anything for him.  He’s only known him for three months and yet.  And yet.</p><p>He thinks about what LeBlanc had said.  All lies.  They must have been.  They were only tricks, meant to antagonize him, to goad him into reckless behavior, just as everything else that comes out of her mouth is.  She must have been following them that night, watching.  It is vile, that she would sink this low, even for her.  He’s not— he’s not— </p><p>He has heard LeBlanc lie many times and deep down, a part of him knows that this— this was not one of them.</p><p>“Nothing, boy,” he says softly, pulling away. “Goodnight.”</p><p>And before Talon can say anything more, Swain clicks the door shut behind him.</p><p>-</p><p>He spends the years ignoring his mark; he hadn’t had one for the first two decades of his life.  It is not difficult to pretend he doesn’t still.</p><p>-</p><p>Talon is sixteen and <em> ready</em>.  He’s skilled now, brute strength and raw speed refined by six years under Master Du Couteau and even Swain has to admit he’s grown.  His spars with Kat are legendary and his fights with Marcus even moreso.  They attract countless spectators from among the upper class; even Lord Darkwill comes to watch them from time to time, just see the grace and beauty with which they move, dodging blow after blow.  The clash of blades is irresistible to their spectators, each slash artful and deliberate, like the stroke of a brush.</p><p>He knows of Swain’s distaste for these affairs, these ostentatious shows of strength; it only makes it that much sweeter when he visits during training and Talon sees the barely-there curve of his lips that seems to appear without his knowledge or consent.  Even when he loses--which he often does against Marcus--Talon can see the careful way in which Swain follows his movements and the nod of approval when he lands a particularly clever maneuver.</p><p>Today is one such occasion.  Swain is there on military business, but here he is, arms crossed, watching Talon slip around Katarina, their movements like a dance.  Kat is fast— blinking from place to place faster than Talon keep track of most of the time— but Talon’s strength is in his carefully placed blows and immobilizing jabs.</p><p>They’ve been at it for hours now, and their movements are slower, tired, but neither of them want to yield.  He can tell that Kat’s getting bored, her hits sloppier and more telegraphed, so when she goes for a particularly daring blow to his jaw, he dodges easily and lands a hit that sends her tumbling to the ground and clutching her stomach.</p><p>“I yield,” she says, coughing, and Talon offers her hand and pulls her to her feet. “You’re getting better.”</p><p>“Or you’re getting worse,” he teases, and she rolls her eyes.</p><p>“As if.”</p><p>“Enough,” Marcus says, tone light, but even Talon can see the hardness in his eyes, the hint of disappointment.  Kat straightens up immediately, wincing. “You did well, Talon.  Get dressed and relax; you’ve earned it.”</p><p>“Yes, master,” he says, bowing.  He looks to Swain then and grins, all confidence and pride.  His guardian’s small smile only brightens his mood further and he can’t help himself from crossing the room to meet him.</p><p>“Did you see that?” Talon asks, eagerly, hands tangled up in the folds of his cloak.</p><p>“I did,” he says, impossibly fond.  His heart soars.  “I am… impressed.  Marcus did say you were improving significantly as of late.”</p><p>“<em>I </em> told you.  You didn’t believe me?” he says, feigning hurt.  He looks up at him from beneath thick lashes and he can see Swain’s amused gaze looking down upon him.</p><p>“I had to see it for myself, I suppose,” he murmurs, voice warm.  <em> He’s </em> warm, Talon thinks absently, fingers still buried in his clothes.  He’s so close now that he can feel the heat radiating from Swain’s chest, and the thought sends something hot rushing up his spine, dizzying and intoxicating.</p><p>“And I suppose I showed you,” he breathes.</p><p>“You did.” They’re staring at each other now, and it’s times like these that Talon’s reminded of the words that are scrawled across his hips— a reminder of what he can’t have.</p><p>“Swain.” Marcus’s voice breaks the moment and when Swain’s gloved hands come to guide Talon’s fingers back to his sides, he can feel the disappointment creeping into his expression.</p><p>“Yes, right,” Swain says, unusually flustered, but Talon’s sure only he and Marcus even notice the slight unsteadiness in his tone.  Marcus narrows his eyes for a moment, but says nothing, waving Swain along as he walks out the door.  Kat follows him, along with the few spectators Marcus had invited, until they’re the only ones left in the room.</p><p>“I’ll see you after?” Talon asks, even though he knows the answer.  Why wouldn’t he?  But he asks nonetheless, if only to hear his voice again.</p><p>“Of course,” he says, fond smile replaced with something tighter, more rehearsed.  He turns to leave, and Talon frowns.</p><p>-</p><p>“I heard you won today,” Cass says, as he steps out of the bathroom.  He jumps a bit; he was sure he locked all the doors, but here she is, dressed in nothing but a satin robe that ends mid-thigh.  He tenses immediately, and Cass’s eyes twinkle, like they always do when she’s got him off-kilter.</p><p>“I did,” he says, drying his damp hair while steadily avoiding her gaze.  He walks over to the dresser, looking the mirror as he combs his unruly hair.  She strolls over to him, arms thrown around his waist and chin resting on his shoulder so she can see her reflection.  She hums and the sound vibrates through his body.</p><p>“I’ll bet Kat was angry,” she says, voice low.  Her hands slip beneath the thin fabric of his tunic and roam the wide expanse of his chest.  “You know how much she hates letting Father down.  Especially when <em> Swain’s </em> watching.”  He places the comb on the dresser, then, and relaxes into her touch.</p><p>They’ve been doing this for months now:  breathless kisses stolen in hallway closets, fleeting touches ghosting across heated flesh.  He’s grown accustomed to her petty barbs and blatant manipulations and she enjoys the challenge of <em> getting </em> to him.  </p><p>It’s all meaningless, in the end.  Whatever they have isn’t real.  Won’t last.  They each have their soulmarks and though Cass has never seen his, her words--<em> how much are we talking? </em>--are laid bare for all to see.</p><p>His words, on the other hand, lace around the curve of his hips and they’ve never gone far enough for Cass to see them.  She asks, sometimes.  Where they are, what they say, but he’s never told her.  It feels too personal, too <em> real </em> for someone like her to know, and Talon’s certain she would twist them into something sharp, something dangerous, if she knew.</p><p>“Not that you don’t enjoy showing off for him too.” He stiffens and she smirks.</p><p>“It’s not like that,” he says. “Kat just wants to prove she’s worthy after—”</p><p>“And what about you?” she asks, turning him around so that they’re chest to chest. She eyes him salaciously, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.  She slings her arms around his neck, pulling him closer until Talon can feel her breath against his lips. “You’ve got nothing to prove… right?  But you’ve just <em> got </em> to make Daddy proud, huh?”</p><p>He kisses her then, if only to shut her up, if only so he doesn’t have to think about the implications of her words.  Her lips are hard against his and it’s always like this:  rough and violent and vicious.  He grabs her and she pulls him towards the bed, <em> taking </em>, always taking, until the backs of her knees hits the mattress.  She guides him on top of her, so that his knee is slotted between her legs and his palms lie flat against the comforter.</p><p>“That make you angry?” she asks breathlessly, and she’s grinning, wide and dangerous, her dark hair fanning out around her head.  He leans in again, pressing his lips to her neck, right against her soulmark and <em> bites</em>.  She moans then, craning her neck as he leaves marks across her flawless skin. “<em>Talon</em>—”</p><p>But then there’s a knock at the door and a deep <em> Talon </em> that sends him scrambling off of her as the door creaks open.  They’re a mess; his hair is still damp and tousled, his tunic a wrinkled mess, and Cass’s robe suspiciously loose.</p><p>“Are you ready—” Swain raises an eyebrow at him, taking in the scene before him with an even expression.  Talon can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks and his ears feel like they’ve been set aflame.  All the while, Cass makes no attempts to cover up or to even <em> look </em> ashamed.  She just smiles airily and gives Swain a little wave. “We’re going home, boy.”</p><p>He nods once, head laid low, and Swain turns around.</p><p>-</p><p>He doesn’t know why he’s surprised; Talon’s young and Marcus’s daughters have inherited their mother’s good looks, Cassiopeia most of all.  It’s only natural that they’ve gravitated toward each other.  Of course.  </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Talon mutters, as they approach their home.  He hadn’t spoken the whole ride home, hadn’t <em> looked </em>at him a single time.  Except there’s no reason for him to act this way, for him to feel guilty.  It’s only natural.  It’s only natural.</p><p>“Don’t be,” Swain says, stiffly. “I’m just…” </p><p><em> Just what?  Just angry?  Angry that your boy doesn’t quite need you anymore?  And when did you start thinking of him as yours?  He’s sixteen for God’s sake and you’re— you’re— </em> </p><p>“Concerned, is all.  Cassiopeia is—”</p><p>“Marcus’s daughter.  I know, I know, but I just— she’s not gonna say anything,” Talon explains, without really explaining anything.  He’s looking at him now and Swain can do nothing but look straight ahead. “Swain, I—”</p><p>“Talon,” Swain interrupts, forcing himself to steady his tone.  He turns to him as he dismounts, face even. “Your… dalliances are none of my concern.  I was merely surprised that you’d chosen Cassiopeia over her sister.  I had assumed you were closer.” </p><p>A flash of relief crosses Talon’s face and an amused smile breaks out over his lips.</p><p>“Oh.  I thought you’d be angry,” he says, hurrying to his side while Swain unlocks the door.</p><p>“And why is that?” he asks, stepping inside. “You are the heir of my house and Cassiopeia is a suitable match.”  The words taste bitter in his mouth.</p><p>“Oh, um.  It’s not…” he trails off.  Swain slips off his cloak and hangs it on the rack.  “It’s not like that.  She’s not my…”  Talon looks at him, searching.  Swain stares straight ahead and tries to look as indifferent as possible.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>He continues toward the kitchen and pointedly does <em> not </em> think about the words wrapped around his arm that unsettle him in ways he would prefer not to examine.  Talon is still for a moment, and Swain can hear the quiet sigh of disappointment before he comes running after him.</p><p>“Soulmate.  She’s not my soulmate,” he says, and then slowly, carefully: “But you already knew that, right?”</p><p>Swain pauses and knows instantly that this is something that should be avoided.  That his foolish ward is delving into things he is not ready for, things that shouldn’t be said, not yet and likely not ever. </p><p>It is not a secret what Swain’s words are, not to Talon.  Marcus has seen them too, on the rare occasion that he can be persuaded to spar with him.  Talon had seen it when he was younger, when he’d crawled into his bed in the dead of night, and Swain had awoken to Talon’s hands on his shoulder, pushing the sleeve of his shirt up and gazing intently at his mark cast in the warm glow of the fire.</p><p>He’d pushed him off then, hurried and panicked, and he’d regretted it the moment he’d seen the wonder in Talon’s eyes turn to fear.  He’d left shortly after.  Talon never brought it up after, and Swain didn’t either, save to apologize.</p><p>“Of course,” he says. “You certainly didn’t say those words to her.”</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, Swain sees Talon’s frown deepen, and a stab of guilt pierces his chest.</p><p>“Right,” he murmurs, looking away.</p><p>“Let’s go out tonight,” Swain blurts out, before Talon disappears down the hall.  The boy whips around immediately, his eyes lit up with excitement. It’s his favorite, late night dinners spent in each other’s company, and Swain knows it all too well.</p><p>“You’re serious?” he asks, disappointment evaporating almost instantly.</p><p>“You did well today, after all.”  </p><p>Talom beams, and everything is all right in the world.</p><p>-</p><p>“Your first assignment, hm?” Kat says, smirking, but Talon feels the hint of shame in her voice as she’s reminded of <em> her </em> first mission, her first failure— a result of reckless pride.  The scar upon her left eye ensures she <em> never </em> forgets. “Who is it?”</p><p>“A Demacian general,” he says, trying to contain his excitement. “Darkwill trusts <em> me </em> to kill him and cripple the Demacian war front in the east.”</p><p>She smiles and this time it’s genuine.</p><p>“I’m happy for you,” she says, and means it. “You’ll do great.”</p><p>“Of course,” he laughs. “When do I not?”</p><p>She snorts and mounts her horse, waiting for Talon to climb atop his.  The ride home is uneventful, though the capital seems rather sparse compared to its usual crowds and morning bustle, likely due to the war effort.</p><p>They stop at he and Swain’s house, tying their horses to post outside, and walk inside to see Swain about to disappear into his office.  He’s dressed in his work clothes— a white button up that hugs his arms in all the right places and black dress pants that accentuate the hard lines of his body— and Talon can’t help but stare.</p><p>Kat nudges him.</p><p>“Swain,” Kat says in greeting.</p><p>“Katarina,” he responds, smiling warmly, and Talon finds he very much likes it when he does that. “Welcome home, Talon.”</p><p>“I got my first mission!” he blurts out, before flushing red.  Swain would know that already, he supposes.  The man plans everything; he doesn’t know where Darkwill would be without Swain.  He doesn’t know where <em> he </em> would be without Swain.</p><p>“I heard,” he says, fond, and Talon can’t stop the smile that crosses his lips. “You leave tomorrow, yes?”</p><p>“I do,” he says. “I’ll—” <em> make you proud</em>, he wants to say, but clamps his mouth shut before the words slip out.  He’s sixteen and a <em> real </em> assassin now; he can’t be doing these kinds of things.  Whatever they are. “I’ll be back before you know it.”</p><p>“I’m sure,” he says, his voice softer than his usual dry tone.  It makes Talon’s heart flutter just a bit in a way that warms his cheeks.  “I will see you at dinner.”</p><p>He slips into his office with a soft click, and for a moment, Talon just stares at the closed door.</p><p>“Talon?” Kat says, breaking the silence.  She’s frowning slightly, brows creased.  He snaps out of his daze.</p><p>“Yeah.  Sorry.”</p><p>They make his way to his bedroom and Kat watches thoughtfully as he haphazardly shoves clothes into his bag.  Silence has never been awkward for them, but there’s a part of him that’s nervous, like Kat’s about to discover something about him that he’s not ready for anyone else to learn.</p><p>“Talon, you and Swain aren’t...” she trails off with a crooked smile.  He pauses, for a second, but forces his hands into action.  To freeze now is to admit that something’s there, that there’s something to hide when there’s <em> not </em>.  He trains his eyes on the strings of his bag and pulls it tight, knuckles white. “You know.  Right?”</p><p>“What?” he asks, forcing a confused sort of smile on his face, like he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, like she doesn’t know him inside and out, like she doesn’t know him better than he knows himself. “Swain and I are fine.”</p><p>“Yeah, but—” she starts, serious, but cuts herself off.  She laughs, but it’s a pathetic sound, soft with concern. “Nevermind.”</p><p>He thinks about her words at dinner that evening, and they echo in his mind as he lies awake that night in anticipation of the days ahead of him.  It means nothing, he tells himself.  So what if he looks his guardian just a little bit longer than necessary, if his heart beats just a little bit faster when he touches him?</p><p>His fingers drift downwards of their own accord, tracing the words that rest on his hips, just below his stomach.  He replays that moment in his head again and again, like he used to when he was younger, when he’d first seen Swain’s words.</p><p><em> It’s him </em>, he’d thought at the time.  He’d never— he’d never heard those words in his life.  Variations, yes.  The men they sent were cruel; they liked to taunt him before they struck and they paid for their arrogance with their lives.  </p><p><em> I’ve been looking for you, boy. </em>   He recalls a wiry man with dark hair hiss, his black eyes filled with violent delight.  He remembers another— a woman with silvery hair that clung to her dirt caked face, desperation staining her tone: <em> I’ve been looking for you for days. </em></p><p>The memories had planted seeds of doubt in his mind until curiosity had gotten the better of him and he’d crawled into Swain’s bed one night, just to <em> see, </em> just to know.  The chances are too low to be a coincidence; their words match and Talon— Talon <em> knows. </em></p><p>But Swain had said nothing, hadn’t even acknowledged the words on his arm or asked for his, and he <em> doubts </em> .  Why <em> wouldn’t </em> he say something?  He’s his soulmate; they were <em> born </em> for each other.  And so they were nothing, <em> are </em> nothing still.</p><p>And yet he can’t help but think that perhaps he must make something happen.</p><p>-</p><p>“It is done,” Talon says, as the general’s head rolls across the cold stone.  He kneels before Darkwill, head bowed low and ingratiating. The picture of precision and skill and loyalty wrapped into one:  the perfect weapon.</p><p>He can practically feel Darkwill’s gaze on him, can almost <em> hear </em> his pleased smile and dark pleasure.</p><p>“Rise,” he commands, and Talon does, chin held high. “You have done your country a service, Talon.  Your nation thanks you.”</p><p>But Talon’s not looking at Darkwill; he’s looking at Swain, with his reeled-in pride and steady jaw, but the quirk of his lips is enough, the barely noticeable nod flooding his chest with inexplicable joy.  The kill was clean, unnoticed, until Talon was already miles away from the fortress.</p><p>“It is an honor to serve,” he says, eyes flitting back to Darkwill.  In truth, the nation— Noxus, Darkwill, all of them— matters little to him in itself, but it matters to Swain and what matters to Swain matters to Talon.</p><p>“You should be proud of him,” Darkwill says, turning to Swain. “Quite a boy you’ve raised.”</p><p>“I am,” he says, and this time he smiles wide and unabashed. “He has done well.”</p><p>Talon’s heart sings.</p><p>-</p><p>“What’s in Shurima?” Talon asks, as Swain surveys the intricate map given to him by Darkwill.  He can hear him rummaging through the cabinets behind him and the clatter of plates makes him wince.  It’s been months since his first kill and Talon’s gotten increasingly nosy in matters concerning his targets.  He pesters him often for hints of his next assignment— where it could be, who it could be, whether it’ll be a <em> challenge </em> this time.</p><p>“Artifacts infused with some ancient magic,” Swain says, peering over his shoulder for a moment.  He returns to his map, fingers tracing the edge of the coast thoughtfully. “Darkwill’s latest obsession.  It is folly.”</p><p>Whatever Darkwill wants is further inland, buried beneath the tons and tons of sand scattered across the Shuriman desert, but first they must take the coast.  There are valuable port cities there— places that are of use to them, places that have <em> practical </em> value.  But Shurima is a mystery to him.</p><p>Their ancient empire had collapsed thousands of years ago and somehow they prevail without an emperor.  They are fractured, factions and mercenaries splitting them irreparably, and yet they are strong, united in their brutality and ruthlessness.</p><p>“And yet you’re going.”  Talon’s voice is startlingly close and suddenly he feels arms thrown over his shoulders from behind his seat.  Talon’s chest is flush against his back now, his chin resting on the junction between his neck and shoulder.  He can feel the ghost of his breath against his skin and it sends chills running down his spine.</p><p>“Because I am loyal to my country,” and the words are accusatory, but his tone is teasing.  Without thinking, his hand drifts to where Talon’s hands cross across his abdomen and he strokes it once affectionately. “Unlike <em> you </em>.”</p><p>“I <em> am </em> loyal,” he says and Swain can hear the smile in his voice.  He scoffs. “What?  I am.  Honest.”</p><p>“Loyal to what?” Swain asks sardonically.  He moves a wooden sun disc across the map and brings the model iron ships closer to the city of Nashramae.  Talon still hasn’t said a word. “Talon?”</p><p>“To you,” he says, hesitantly.  Honest.  Tone more telling than anything he’s said yet.  It’s like suddenly the room’s too small, too hot for just the two of them.  Swain says nothing.  Can’t.  Just moves the pieces along and inhales sharply. “Swain, I—”</p><p>“Well of course.  You are my <em> ward </em> ,” he says, like he hadn’t noticed a thing, like he hadn’t quite <em> gotten </em>it. “But I suppose that will suffice for the time being.”</p><p>Talon exhales softly and Swain can hear the disappointment in it.  It is for the best.  Talon is young yet and to encourage this temporary infatuation would be unwise, to say the least.  </p><p>It’s not like he hasn’t seen the looks, the tinge of pink that stains the boy’s cheeks when he’s caught staring for just a bit too long.  He touches him more too: a brush of fingers as he passes him their shared pitcher of water, a warm embrace that lasts just a second too long, a fleeting graze of his lips against the crook of his neck as he clings to his back.</p><p>Still, he can’t quite find it in himself to push the boy off him and away, like he knows he should.</p><p>“So what’s the plan?” Talon asks, after a moment.</p><p>“We take the coast,” Swain says. “Though I mislike how little we are prepared.  The factions of Shurima are strong, because they fear their leaders more than they fear death.  Without them, they would scatter like flies.”</p><p>His voice lowers to a soft murmur as he speaks, as if he is merely thinking aloud.  He is only reminded of Talon’s presence when he feels his hot breath against his ear as he whispers, “Send me, then.”</p><p>“It is too dangerous,” Swain says: a statement of fact only.</p><p>“Don’t worry about me,” Talon murmurs into his ear, low voice doing things to him he doesn’t quite like. “I’ll make you proud.”</p><p>Swain inhales slowly, thinking, calculating.  Talon is capable and they both know it, but Swain is loath to send him so far into foreign lands so soon into his service.  It would be the right decision, to send him, and if he succeeds then their victories would be both swift and glorious.  It would be selfish to keep him here; his partiality would be to the detriment of the nation.</p><p>“You will leave in three days,” Swain says finally and though he can’t see Talon’s face he can feel his grin of satisfaction that makes him wonder if he will regret this. “I will have Marcus brief you before you go.”</p><p>“You won’t regret this, Swain.  I promise.”</p><p>He only hopes he is right.</p><p>-</p><p>Talon is quick, silent as moonlight, and after each kill, he falls back into the shadows like he was born for it: unseen, unheard.  One by one, they fall, snuffed out like candles in the wind.  He rides home two weeks earlier than planned.</p><p>-</p><p>The hour is late and the night is dark when Talon returns, salt from the sea still clinging to his skin.  The house is warm when he steps in and he can still smell traces of the meal Swain had prepared for his dinner.  The scent makes his mouth water; he’d been so set on getting home to Swain that he’d skipped his meals entirely.  </p><p>The halls are cast in darkness save for the crack of light from beneath Swain’s office door.  He wonders briefly if he should shower first, but decides against it; it would ruin the surprise after all.  </p><p>Slowly, he pushes open the door silently to find Swain, back turned, bent over his long table poring over maps and various letters arranged neatly on the surface.  The fireplace burns hot and bright and even from here, Talon can feel its warmth.  He draws closer to swain, his steps quiet and undetectable, yet when Talon moves to wrap his arms around Swain’s waist the man whips around, a stern hand wrapped around his wrist in a death grip.</p><p>“Swain—”</p><p>“Talon,” he says, relief flooding his tone.  He lets go instantly and snaps, “You know not to do things like that.”</p><p>Talon colors at the words, despite the warmth growing in his chest at hearing Swain speak his name.  It’s always boy this, boy that, but the way his name slips off Swain’s lips makes Talon dizzy with happiness.  He tries to look ashamed, but Talon can’t help but smile up at him.</p><p>“I just wanted to surprise you,” he says, brightly, even as Swain turns back to his work.  Talon makes his way to the other side of the table and leans on it, propping his head up on his hands to stare up at him with wide eyes.  He watches curiously as Swain’s gaze flits to him and back to the board in an instant.</p><p>“There are ways of surprising me that do not involve me snapping your wrist,” Swain remarks, eyeing the coast intently.  Despite his aura of focus, he sounds distracted, off somehow.  His brows are knit, his lips downturned and Talon longs to wipe the frown from his face.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” he asks, following Swain’s gaze downwards.</p><p>“I fear we are still ill-prepared,” he murmurs, and Talon frowns.  He stands, crossing the room until he’s at Swain’s side.  He slips his arm beneath Swain’s to rest his hand on his, holding it in place as he flicks the golden discs flat on the table one by one until the only thing left standing is the Noxian figurehead gleaming in the candlelight.</p><p>“Their leaders are gone,” he says, watching Swain intently. “You said yourself they would be scatter without them.”</p><p>“I did,” Swain agrees stiffly, his jaw clenched.</p><p>“So why are you worrying?”</p><p>Swain sighs and presses his lips.</p><p>“I suppose you are right, this time,” he says, facing him, fire dancing in his eyes. “But do not ever—” He tears his arm away to reposition the pieces. “do that again.” And though the words are meant to reprimand, they come out too fond, too affectionate when they leave his tongue.  Talon smiles up at him and Swain knows he’s lost.</p><p>-</p><p>Swain is not blind; he can see the hope in Talon’s eyes when he gets back, the expectation of praise, of kind words and warm touches.  He is back over a week earlier than projected and with only good news at that.  The boy’s quick work has Darkwill pleased and even Marcus is impressed, singing his praises like a blacksmith who’s honed a particularly useful blade.</p><p>But Talon still glances at him instinctively, looking, waiting, searching for his nod of approval, a satisfied smile, a warm hand in his hair, but it never comes.  He cannot encourage him further, these… feelings, this misguided infatuation, despite the tug of his heart pulling him ever closer, the feeling in his chest that longs to give in, to let him do as he pleases.</p><p>But Swain is not weak and he knows what is right and what is wrong and <em> this</em>— whatever it is he feels for the boy— is wrong, marks be damned.</p><p>-</p><p>Temptation comes to him the night before he leaves for Shurima.  He’d spent hours at the tower, smoothing out the plans with Marcus and the other generals, Darkwill watching silently from the shadows, and by the time he’d ridden back to the manor, the moon shone bright in the skies, the lights in the house snuffed out hours ago.</p><p>He knows something is off the moment he reaches his door, left ajar, the crackling of the fireplace loud where it should be silent.  He steps into the room, unusually warm, and when he looks to his bed, he freezes.</p><p>“You’re back,” Talon says, voice thick with sleep.  He pushes himself up from where he’d been buried in the sheets—<em> his </em> sheets—exposing the lithe expanse of his chest, the taut muscles of his arms.  Swain watches, still, as Talon rubs the sleep from his eyes before looking up at him from beneath long lashes. “I missed you.”</p><p>“Well here I am,” Swain croaks, throat dry.  He stays at the door, unmoving, putting the necessary distance between them before Talon does something he will regret.</p><p>“But you’re leaving soon,” he pouts. “You’re leaving me.”</p><p>“You’re being ridiculous,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “I am not leaving <em> you.” </em></p><p>Though he doesn’t mean to, Swain gravitates toward him, footfalls heavy with trepidation, until he stops just at the foot of the bed.  Talon crawls closer to meet him, pants hanging low on his hips, daring him to look if only for a second.  He takes hold of Swain’s forearm, thumb stroking the smooth skin like he knows what it does to him, knows all about his feelings, sick and twisted.  Like he knows where Swain’s thoughts lie every time he takes a glimpse of his words in the mirror.</p><p>“I am tired, boy,” Swain says. “Go to your room.”</p><p>“Come to bed,” Talon murmurs, ignoring him.  He pulls him closer, urges him to crawl over his slender form, but Swain refuses to be moved and carefully removes his arm from the boy’s grasp.  He can see the way Talon’s lips tug downwards, pouting and petulant, like a child, and Swain knows he should be angry, disappointed, annoyed; he taught him better than this, after all.  Yet all he can think of is the shine of his lips in the firelight, how easy it would be to just give in.</p><p>“Talon,” Swain warns sharply, but Talon is nothing if not persistent.  He places his palms flat on Swain’s chest, moving up, up and up until he has his arms thrown around Swain’s shoulders.  </p><p>“Why not?” he asks,  gazing up at him, eyes alight with desire and want and <em> determination. </em>   The look sends alarms sounding throughout his head, reminding him of who he is, of who <em> Talon </em> is, of how completely and utterly <em> wrong </em> this is, and finally, after far too long, he heeds them. “I— I want this.”</p><p>“You are young yet,” Swain says, voice steady as always. “You don’t know what you want.”</p><p>“I do,” Talon insists, pulling him closer so that if Swain leaned in only an inch, they would be locked in a kiss.</p><p>“You don’t,” Swain says, forcefully this time. “You are but a boy.”</p><p>“I’m <em> not,” </em> Talon says, and as if to prove it, he clumsily pushes upwards to meet his lips, but Swain’s hand is quick to keep them apart, to maintain the distance between them.</p><p>“Sleep,” Swain says in a tone that leaves little room for argument.  His voice is stern, but not unkind as he tears himself away from Talon’s arms. “We will speak in the morning.”</p><p>“Promise?” he asks, voice small and timid.</p><p>“I promise.”</p><p>He does not look back when he turns; he knows not what he will see and wonders if, perhaps, that is for the best.</p><p>-</p><p>She’s lounging on the bed when Swain enters the guest room, eyes dark and expectant.</p><p>“Emilia,” he says.  He had known she was not dead, of course; she’d appeared to him countless times since that moment, but never at his home.  Their relationship is unchanged; she comes to him at odd hours in the night with a vicious gleam in her eyes, hungry for contact, for conflict, for a different sort of battle than Swain is renowned for.  It is a dangerous vice— the only one Swain allows himself through the years.</p><p>“Jericho,” she croons, in that sickly saccharine voice of hers.</p><p>“I thought I told you not to come here,” he says, eyes narrowed, but unsurprised.  She laughs, as if the thought of her obeying Swain is some kind of joke.</p><p>“And I thought there was nothing between you and that boy,” LeBlanc drawls.  He strips off his coat, folding it neatly and setting it on the chair.  She sits up and approaches him as he strips off his uniform until he’s left in his undershirt and pants, her eyes alight with a mix of desire and cunning.</p><p>“There is nothing,” he says coldly.  She rests her hands against his chest— the exact spot Talon’s were only moments before— and drags her eyes down his body appreciatively before looking back up to make eye contact.</p><p>“That’s not what my little <em> ravens </em> say,” she singsongs. <em>"They </em> say the boy pines over you like a hatchling imprints on its mother.  Is that true, Jericho?”</p><p>He pulls away and steps into the bathroom to turn on the water; the dirt and grime from today’s rounds in the army still cling to his skin and he refuses to sleep with the stink of blood and mud still on him.  LeBlanc follows close behind, eyes never leaving his figure, hungry for any evidence of deceit, of uncertainty.  Anything to knock him off balance with.  He will not give her this.</p><p>“The boy is young,” he says evenly. “Misguided.  But that changes nothing.  There is still nothing.”</p><p>She hums, seemingly satisfied for the moment.  He tears off his shirt and when she wraps his arms around his waist and rests her cheek against his back, he inhales deeply and stills.</p><p>“You are filthy,” she comments, though if she means something other than the muck coating his skin, Swain chooses to ignore it.</p><p>“Obviously,” he remarks. “Now will you be joining me or must I suffer your insolence further?”</p><p>He can feel her grin against his skin as she helps him out of his clothes and into the bath.</p><p>-</p><p>“Good morning,” Emilia says, and Swain’s eyes flit open, sunlight filtering in through the window.  Her hand is in his hair, fingers threading through his hair, and her still naked body is pressed flush against his side.  He’s never seen her like this— in broad daylight, sleek hair shining in the morning light.  It softens her features, makes her look less like the viper he knows she is.</p><p>“You’re still here,” Swain says and he doesn’t hide the surprise from his tone.  She smiles softly and it makes his walls fall down ever so slightly.</p><p>“I am,” she says and if Swain didn’t know any better he’d say she sounded rather fond.  She moves to walk her fingers across his bare chest, delicate fingers caressing the scars that mar his skin.  He hums.</p><p>“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asks, shutting his eyes again.  He still has a couple hours before he must report to his station and he intends to savor them.  Though he is used to it, he does not look forward to the long months at war without the guarantee of a warm meal and a soft bed.</p><p>“I can’t spend the morning with my <em> favorite </em> Noxian general, Jericho?  I’m hurt,” she teases.  He opens his eyes, and looks up at her frowns.</p><p>“What do you want, Emilia?” </p><p>“Nothing,” she says innocently. “I just haven’t seen you in quite a while.”</p><p>“Emilia.”  She smiles and he grabs her wrist, grip brutal; she could break away in an instant if she wanted and they both know it.</p><p>“Jericho.”</p><p>She kisses him then, crawling on top of him so she can straddle his bare hips, and he pushes back just as hard.  It is a bruising, violent sort of kiss and when they pull away, gasping, Swain sees Talon standing in the doorway, hurt and betrayal carved into his expression.  Swain freezes and Talon blinks— once, twice— before he pulls the door shut behind him, his footsteps echoing down the hall.</p><p>He throws her off of him and he can hear her giggling as he rushes to clothe himself.</p><p>“This is what you wanted,” he says angrily; she’s got him this time and she knows it, basks in her little victory. “You insist on destroying everything you touch; it is why you wreak your havoc across Noxus, across Runeterra.  It is why you enthralled my parents in your pretty lies and bent them to your will as you did countless others.  You think you are noble, LeBlanc, that you are above these little lords and foolish ladies, but you are just as power-hungry and conniving as they.”</p><p>She narrows her eyes at him, a hint of rage in her gaze, but the knowledge that he’s gotten under her skin satisfies him little as he thinks of his ward.</p><p>“Of course, darling,” she says without a smile, and with that she disappears.</p><p>-</p><p>By the time Swain is dressed and composed, Talon is long gone.  He expects to find Talon sulking in his room, but when he pushes the door open, it is empty, his bed neatly made as it had been the previous morning.</p><p>He doesn’t know why he feels so guilty; his affairs are his business alone and they are certainly not Talon’s.  There is nothing between them, no matter what LeBlanc says, what her birds say, what <em> fate </em> says.  If anything, he should be insulted that Talon has crossed boundaries that should not be crossed, had slipped into his bed with only the most selfish of intentions.  </p><p>But he doesn’t.  When he closes his eyes and sees Talon’s dejected frown and trembling hands, he should be indignant, outraged.  Instead he feels only an ache in his heart, like he’s done something wrong, like he’s betrayed Talon’s trust when it’s the other way around.</p><p>-</p><p>He doesn’t know why he’s here, twenty minutes before the fleet is supposed to leave, before Swain is supposed to leave for weeks, months, <em> years— </em> nobody knows.  Swain made it clear he wasn’t wanted; <em> his soulmate </em> made it clear he wasn’t wanted.  But Talon can’t help the stab of hurt forcing its way through his chest when he’d seen them together.</p><p>Talon asks for him and waits; the wind is harsh against his face, the ocean spray cold against his skin.  He watches silently as the last recruits board the countless ships that crowd the harbor, but the Dreadway remains disappointingly shut.  With each passing minute, it becomes increasingly clear to Talon that Swain does not want to talk to him, does not want to even see him, but he stays anyway, watching the flagship with bitter acceptance.</p><p>He must look pathetic like this, like an abandoned dog waiting for its master’s return.  His chest aches with the thought of being left again, of ruining the one certainty he had in life.  His own parents hadn’t even wanted him, so why is he surprised that his soulmate didn’t either?</p><p>“Talon?” </p><p>He turns, startled, and there he is, tall, imposing figure wrapped up in his severe military uniform.</p><p>“Swain,” he breathes, relief evident.  He practically falls into him and Swain instinctively catches him, brows creased with concern.  Swain’s hands wrap around his wrists, holding him back, and Talon hopes Swain can’t feel the way he shakes under his touch.  “I thought you were— I thought you’d—” <em> Left me, </em>he doesn’t say.</p><p>“I’m here,” he says, like he’d heard it anyway. “I’ve been looking for you all morning.”</p><p>The words bring the memory flooding back in vivid, painstaking color.  The way he’d let her touch him, the way he’s grabbed her, not unlike the way he holds him now.  It stings, how he will touch this stranger, this woman even Talon’s never seen or heard of, but refuses to even look at him with a hint of desire.  It tastes like betrayal.  Talon frowns, looking away.</p><p>“Why?” he asks, relief replaced by his wounded pride. “You seemed occupied enough.”</p><p>Talon knows how immature he’s being; he’s acting like a child and Swain— that’s why Swain doesn’t want him, right?  Because he’s not ready or he’s too young or— or maybe they’re all just excuses to hide the truth.  Maybe he’s just not enough.</p><p>“Talon.  Look at me.” He waits until Talon lifts his eyes to meet Swain’s and he inhales sharply at the sight of his handsome face, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the cut of his jaw.  He blushes and hopes Swain doesn’t notice. “You should not have had to see that.”</p><p>“No,” he agrees, grumbling.</p><p>“But that does not change…” He trails off and Talon straightens up, ripping his arms from his grasp, suddenly furious.</p><p>“Does not change what?” he asks, expectant, and when Swain doesn’t answer, “That we are soulmates?  That we are destined—”</p><p>“Boy,” he says sharply. “Not here.”</p><p>“Why not?” Talon clenches his jaw, expecting a blow any moment now. “Are you embarrassed of me?  Am I not— am I not good enough?”</p><p>“Talon,” and despite everything, Swain does not raise his voice, steady and even as always. “Do not say that.  You know that is not why.”</p><p>“Then <em> why?” </em> he asks, <em> begs. </em> He gazes up at those endless dark eyes with desperation and the sharp pain of rejection.  Swain doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t frown, but Talon stills sees the conflict embroiled deep in his eyes, in his heart, and he wants nothing more than to rid him of his inhibitions, his hesitation.</p><p>“General!” a soldier calls out from behind. “It is time.”</p><p>Swain lifts a hand, his emotionless expression shifting into something pained, distressed, off-balance like he rarely ever is.</p><p>“We will speak of this later,” Swain says, quietly, meeting his eyes. “If I return.”</p><p>He moves past him and Talon grips his arm, tight.</p><p>“If?” he asks, lips quivering.</p><p>“When,” he amends, and goes.</p><p>-</p><p>Talon spends his nights curled up in Swain’s sheets, taking in the familiar scent of him, aching for his presence, and when Kat finds him one morning still asleep in his bed, she says nothing.  He dreams of soft touches and gentle caresses from calloused fingers, dreams that he is wanted, that he is loved.</p><p>Even with Swain gone, life goes on.  It feels wrong somehow, that the world does not stop for him, that Noxus does not acknowledge the absence of the greatest man to grace the steps of the Immortal Bastion, whose mere presence seems to make the whole city more fearsome.</p><p>He continues training with the Du Couteaus in between missives; Marcus is still here, directing operations from the tallest tower in the capital, while Katarina keeps him company when she’s not off on another mission.  Talon is grateful; he does not know what he would do with all of them gone.</p><p>Still, he writes Swain every week to tell him about what he’s up to, what places he’s been to as he eliminates the targets Marcus gives him.  Swain writes back when he can, the letters coming in once a month if he’s lucky, and when he reads the careful <em> I have missed you too, </em>his heart soars and Talon allows himself to hope.</p><p>-</p><p>Swain wins victory after victory for Noxus in the desert sands of Shurima, expanding their already massive territory even further.  He brings glory to his house, his name, his men, and when they look at him with a renewed sense of respect after he leads them into battle against the Nashramaens, Swain can’t help the swell of pride that grows in his chest.  </p><p>He wonders if Talon has heard, can imagine his bright smile and expressive eyes, heart open only to him.  A flash of guilt pulses through him at the thought; it shouldn’t please him so, the knowledge that his uncontained joy, his easy smiles, his affectionate touches are reserved solely for him.  </p><p>When he is alone in his chambers, he sits at his desk in silence, staring at the notes Talon has written for him, fingers stroking the battered parchment.  He stares at the inked words, the unabashed <em> I miss you, </em> and keeps himself from writing back that he’s sorry, that he misses him too.  He wants to reassure him that he is wanted, that Swain is not embarrassed or ashamed of him, but <em> proud, </em> proud that he has raised him to be strong and skilled and the <em> best. </em></p><p>He writes his apologies into every letter that he throws into the fire.  He cannot tolerate these foolish advances, this childish infatuation despite what his heart tells him, what his words tell him, so he tries to hide it, restrains his affection as he writes his reply so that Talon cannot see his heart in his words, so he will not be encouraged by whatever fond words Swain longs to tell him.</p><p>Talon would be seventeen by now, he thinks, and he wishes him a happy birthday in his letter and hopes it will arrive in time.  He tells him that he wishes he were there, and that he hopes all is well in Noxus, but when he gets his response and sees <em> “I wish you were here.  I love you,” </em>written painstakingly at the bottom of his stationary, he sets it down on the desk and lies down, staring up at the dark ceiling of the his quarters.</p><p>He wastes sixteen pieces of parchment formulating a proper response and does not send any of them.</p><p>-</p><p>Today is Talon’s eighteenth birthday and though he is surrounded by those he loves, he feels only a dulled sense of loneliness as he downs the shots Cassiopeia keeps pouring for him.  The room is quiet despite the party going on around the rest of Swain’s house.  Marcus is there, along with the rest of the upper class, hungry for any excuse to socialize and gossip.</p><p>He misses Swain, has missed him for the past eleven months when he’d stopped receiving Swain’s letters.  He’d never stopped sending any, but when the letters come from the warfront, Talon waits in vain for just one addressed for him, but it never comes.  Until now.</p><p>He’d feared the worst, despite knowing that if Swain were dead, the news would be spread across the capital in an instant.  No, Swain was not dead, couldn’t be.</p><p>The knowledge both comforted and pained him.  He spent nights awake, thinking about how Swain was alive and well somewhere in the desert sands, winning renown from every corner of Valoran, with all the resources in the world at his disposal and yet finds no time to write to him.  Swain writes to Master Du Couteau, reporting victory after victory, but with no acknowledgement of Talon.  He knows; he’d stolen into his office after training once.</p><p>But that morning, after hours of brutal training, of relentless drills, Marcus rewards him with a sealed envelope, the seal embossed with the outline of a raven.  His heart had been racing, his head pounding, and Talon couldn’t have been certain if it was more from his training or the letter.</p><p>He’d opened it as soon as he was alone.</p><p><em> Congratulations, </em> the letter says.  <em> I will see you soon. </em></p><p>And then it ends.</p><p>He takes another shot.</p><p>“I don’t get it,” he slurs, resting his head on the table.. “I don’t.”</p><p>“Don’t get what?” Kat asks, words clear, but Talon knows she’s no less drunk.  Or he thinks anyway.  Maybe he doesn’t know.  Maybe it doesn’t matter.</p><p>“Why—” He slams a fist on the table abruptly. “Why he does this.  What did I—<em> hic— </em> what did I do— <em> hic— </em>to deserve this?”</p><p>“You’re going to have to be a little more clear,” Kat says, but by the edge in her tone, Talon knows he really doesn’t.  He looks up, sitting up in his seat on the cool tile floor, and glares at her with a disgruntled frown.</p><p>“It’s <em> Swain,” </em> he groans. “He hasn’t said anything in— in a year.  In months.  Nothing.  He— he must hate me.”</p><p>“Why do you care?” Cass asks, head tilted. “If my father left me alone for a year, I know I wouldn’t be complaining.”</p><p>Kat shoots her a disapproving glare but Cass only rolls her eyes.</p><p>“What?  It’s true.”</p><p>“He’s not you.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>Talon lies down, groaning as his head hits the floor.  His shirt rides up his chest, so that the words written across the dip of his hips peek up, just above the waist of his pants.</p><p>“You are hopeless,” Kat spits, before turning to Talon. “He doesn’t hate you.  He’s probably just busy.”</p><p>“But he writes to your father,” Talon mumbles, shutting his eyes.</p><p>“He has to,” she says.</p><p>“And he doesn’t have to write to me?”</p><p>“Talon.”</p><p>“I know, I know, I just—”</p><p>“He cares.  He does, he just…”</p><p>“Just what?”</p><p>“Has a lot on his mind right now,” she finishes.  He huffs and puts an arm over his eyes.</p><p>“Like always,” he mutters to himself.</p><p>She says nothing in response and Talon should feel like he’s won something, but all he feels is emptiness.  They sit there for a while, just listening to the buzz of voices hovering outside Talon’s room, content with the relative silence.  It gives him time to think— or overthink, rather— and stew in his own bitterness.</p><p>Swain hasn’t sent word in months and he responds with this, with no explanation, with no acknowledgement of his long silence, expecting all to be well.  He shouldn’t even dignify it with a response.  He is kept in the dark about the war effort enough, save for news of their astounding victories along the coast, and that Swain has said nothing more than a simple <em> congratulations </em> is insulting.</p><p>Is he not owed anything more?  And even if Swain does not see him as— as his <em> soulmate— </em> he is his ward, his heir; surely he deserves more than six words.</p><p>Inevitably, where Swain is concerned, Talon’s thoughts drift back to the morning Swain had left, to the sight of that woman on top of him.  It hurts all the more to remember the night before, that promise, that broken, meaningless promise he’d made before slipping into bed with someone else, someone older, more beautiful, more <em> desirable. </em>  </p><p>“Stop thinking so hard,” Cass snaps, but there’s little heat behind the words.  Talon sits up and glares at her. “Cheer up.  It’s your birthday.  And <em> I’m </em> here.  You don’t <em> need </em> Swain.”</p><p>She’s right, he thinks.  It is his birthday and she is here and he doesn’t need Swain.  He doesn’t.  <em> He doesn’t. </em>  He’s eighteen and frustrated and angry and bitter, and he’s with the angriest and most bitter person he knows; there’s no better place to be, he thinks.  He takes another shot.</p><p>“Talon.”  It is a warning and Kat levels him with a disapproving frown and crossed arms. “That’s enough.”</p><p>She’s always like this, acting like she’s his mother, like she knows what’s best for him, and she does— she knows him better than he knows himself, but Talon can’t find it in him to appreciate it right now, when he’s drowning in a sea of a million undefined emotions and ready to make as many terrible decisions as he can in one night.  He takes another, just to spite her, when Cass refills his glass.</p><p>“Fine,” she spits, getting up. “Do what you want.  Leave me out of it.”</p><p>As soon as she leaves, Cass is on him, her wandering hands already snaking up his shirt, nails dragging across his skin.  She kisses him, all teeth, hard and biting, but he pushes back all the same, lets his anger course through him, like he can’t with anyone else.  He maneuvers them so that he leans over her, knelt between her spread thighs and breath hot against her neck.</p><p>“Not here,” she pants into his ear. “A bed.  I want a bed.”</p><p>He lets her lead him into the nearest bedroom and in his drunken haze, Talon doesn’t realize that they’re in Swain’s room until he’s too far gone to care, to tell her to leave.  He can almost smell him even still, even though it’s been years since he last slept between these sheets.</p><p>She climbs on top of him, straddling him with her hips and pinning his arms over his head, and makes him beg for it.  Even then she teases him, taking off his pants with practiced ease and trailing bites from his throat down, down, <em> down. </em> She leaves marks across his flushed skin and they will bruise in the morning; he feels it.</p><p>Each graze of her fingers makes him arch into her touch, elicits a delicious noise from his reddened lips as he moans.  It makes him forget, his head consumed by thoughts of her and only her, so he doesn’t have to think about the soulmate who didn’t want him, who didn’t care.  He’s so caught up in her that he doesn’t notice the way she deliberately pauses at the dip of his hips, eyes almost glowing at the sight of his words written in Swain’s distinct, deliberate handwriting.</p><p>It is then that she lets him take her and it is violent, brutal; her nails dig into his back as he ruts into her, dizzy with desire and lust and frustration.  She lets him push her down, eyes alight with satisfaction even as Talon grips her hips with bruising strength, and it is so different than how Talon imagines it would be with Swain.</p><p>Swain who would be gentle with him, who would leave soft kisses across his skin, who would take care of him.  Swain who used to smile at him like he was the most valuable thing in the empire, who would run fingers through his hair as he read, who took him in when no one else would.  Swain who doesn’t want him.</p><p>Cass seems to notice where his thoughts lie, tightening her hold on his waist with her ankles, and when he finishes, it is with a mixture of guilt and self-loathing and shame.</p><p>He rolls over, exhausted, collapsing into the sheets beside her to stare up at the ceiling, the feeling of dread sinking in like an anchor.  Cass pants beside him, body slick with sweat and seed, but she seems otherwise unaffected and props herself up on her elbow, watching him with darkened eyes.</p><p><em> “I’ve been looking for you, boy,” </em>she says, slow and calculated, and Talon freezes. </p><p>“What did you say?” he asks, startled.  She eyes him as he pushes himself up to stare down at her relaxed form.</p><p>“Those are your words, aren’t they?” she asks, looking up at him knowingly.  His mouth goes dry and he can’t deny it, can’t tell her off, can’t even move his lips from where they are parted ever so slightly in shock. “That’s why you’re so upset.  Because it’s him.”</p><p>And still, he says nothing, heart racing with trepidation, because what if she tells someone, what if someone else finds out?   She waits for him to say something, anything, but he doesn’t and she smiles up at him, satisfied with his stillness.  She brings a hand up to push a strand of sweat-soaked hair out of his face, the gesture soft, too soft for someone like her.</p><p>“I always knew there was something wrong with that man,” she says casually. “But I didn’t know he was into little <em> boys.” </em> </p><p>That’s when he grips her wrist, bone-crushingly tight, and looks at her with fire in his eyes, with burning hatred, and though his head felt like it had been spinning only moments before, Talon feels suddenly, terrifyingly sober.</p><p>“Don’t talk about him like that,” he grits out from between clenched teeth. “Never say anything like that again.  He is noble and pure and kind and everything you are not.”</p><p>Cass has never been one to be intimidated by mere words, but something in Talon’s voice, in his gaze makes her tremble with fear and she rips her arm from his grasp and hurries out of the room as quickly as she had slipped inside.</p><p>He collapses into bed once again, adrenaline suddenly gone, and shuts his eyes, too tired to care about Cass’s tricks or Kat’s disappointment or Swain’s abandonment.  He falls asleep with tears in his eyes and an inexplicable feeling of hopelessness.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>ok this took a fat minute and im not entirely happy with it but thanks for bearing with me<br/>-<br/>as always, comments are very much appreciated (:</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Swain gets home late into the night, his bones ache with exhaustion and his head pulses with pain.  The windows of the manor shine with light and Swain can see the silhouettes of the guests inside.  He sighs.  He has dealt with far too much in the past two years to be entertaining guests for his first few hours home, but he is glad to have come home in time for Talon’s party.</p><p>It has been far too long and Swain <em> misses </em> him, misses his easy touches, his brazen grin, his sweet laughter.  He misses all of it and more, and he is glad to have come at last.  He’d planned to surprise him with the jeweled daggers he’d had made in Shurima, the silver handle inlined with gold and dotted with glittering emeralds, but a part of him wonders if it would even be welcome.</p><p>It had been months since last they’d spoken.  Well.  Months since Swain had written him, truly written him.  He knows Talon is angry, has been in correspondence with Katarina to see how he fares, to know how he is feeling.  She tells him he is being selfish and stupid and a million other words that no subordinate should ever call her commander, but she does it all the same and Swain knows that she is probably right.</p><p>As he pushes open the door, he is greeted with Marcus’s lazy grin and the cheers of half the nobility in the city, celebrating his return.  Katarina is there, but not Talon.  No, Talon is very pointedly absent from his own birthday party and Swain cannot understand why.</p><p>“Welcome home,” Marcus says, by his side in an instant, arm thrown over his shoulder. “The whole empire has heard news of your victories, my friend.  You are a legend, Swain, <em> a legend.” </em></p><p>“And very tired,” Swain mutters, so only they can hear it.  Marcus shoots him a dirty look.</p><p>“Come, there is wine to be had,” he says, and Swain can smell the rich scent of his own wine stores on his breath.  He resists the urge to roll his eyes.</p><p>“Yes, <em> my wine, </em> it seems,” he scoffs, letting himself be guided by Marcus’s insistent hand.</p><p>“Well of course.  Talon is <em> your </em> ward,” he says, laughing, and then a little more seriously, “He has missed you greatly.”</p><p>“I know,” he says, softly. “I know.”</p><p>“Do you?” he asks, before shoving a glass into his hands. “Drink up.”</p><p>He glares at Marcus as he takes a sip and watches his best friend grin, wide and self-satisfied, as he plops back into his seat beside Soreana who looks up at him with amusement.  He takes a seat beside them and answers the countless questioned directed at him and indulges the guests dying for a riveting war story, but his mind wanders, his eyes sifting through the crowd of socialites for his ward, his <em> boy. </em></p><p>Katarina’s eyes meet his several times throughout the night and he can tell that something’s upset her, something that isn’t him.  Her arms are crossed and there’s a bored, unimpressed sort of look on her face, her lips pressed into a line.</p><p>He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, though, because Marcus is pelting him with more questions, dying to know how exactly he survived the desert heat, what with his exclusively black and red wardrobe and whatnot.  It isn’t until later that he sees Cassiopeia slip into the room, hair a mess and clothes rumpled, that he realizes what it is Katarina is so unhappy about.</p><p>Cassiopeia glances at him for a split second, a flash of bitterness and hatred in her eyes, and Swain pretends not to notice to save both of them the embarrassment.  A mixture of jealousy and relief cuts through him, because if Marcus’s youngest is here, then surely Talon will follow soon after.</p><p>He waits.  And waits.  And waits and waits and waits, but the boy never comes and Swain can’t stop the frown that slips onto his lips.  When the realization that Talon is not coming, he sets the ornate box that contains Talon’s present down on the table and sits graciously through the rest of the night as a good host should, drinking little and saying even less.</p><p>Marcus seems to sense his discomfort keenly enough that he decides enough is enough and subtly dismisses the rest of the guests before making to leave himself.</p><p>“He will see reason,” Marcus says, before he leaves, placing a solid hand on his shoulder. “Give him time.”</p><p>And then he goes, leaving Swain alone in the foyer, staring at the wood of his own front door.</p><p>- </p><p>He looks for him, first, in his own room, but it seems just as untouched as the day he’d first left.  There is only one other place he could be and Swain can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he reaches for the door handle, breath quickening in anticipation of what lies behind that door.</p><p>“Talon?” he calls, soft and with entirely too much of himself in it.  He steps carefully inside, shutting the door behind him with a barely audible click, and finds him lying beneath his sheets, fast asleep.  He should tell him to leave now, while he can, but Swain can’t find it in himself to wake the boy up just yet.  </p><p>He lights the fireplace and shuffles through his drawers, pulling out his sleep clothes.  He slips into the bathroom to shower before bed and when he comes back out fully dressed and hair slightly damp, Talon is there, eyes just barely open.  In the firelight, Swain can see the marks blossoming over his skin, his shirt discarded on the floor beside the bed, and nothing could stop the rush of jealousy that surges through him at the sight.</p><p>“Talon.  Get up,” he says.  Swain stands over him, careful not to get to close, not to touch, because though it’s wrong and sick and twisted, he <em> wants. </em>  Wants with every fiber of his soul, wants despite everything telling him he shouldn’t.</p><p>“You’re here,” he murmurs, voice soft with sleep.  There’s a hint of wonder in it and Swain wonders what he ever did to deserve to be loved so.</p><p>“I am,” he agrees evenly.</p><p>“Missed you.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“Lonely without you.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“You— <em> hic— </em>never wrote, after— after...”</p><p>He trails off.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Silence.  Still, he does not move.</p><p>He’s about to turn and go, to return to the guest room that started this mess, but before he can, he feels delicate fingers wrapping around his wrist, pleading.  Swain turns to him, lips parted at the sight of Talon like this, completely and utterly debauched lying beneath his sheets, begging for him to stay.  It sends a sick sort of satisfaction running through him, flashes of what could be filling his traitorous head.</p><p>“Please.” <em> Stay, </em>he doesn’t say.  </p><p><em> Leave now, while you can, </em> the rational parts of him scream. <em> Keep going and don’t look back, don’t speak, don’t say a word, do not turn back. </em></p><p>“Okay,” he whispers instead, because he is tired.  Because he is weak.  Because he never could deny Talon for long, not with his pretty dark lashes and wide, innocent eyes and glistening pink lips.  Because he’s been away for far too long and surely he deserves to have one night of weakness: his first in thirty-eight long years.</p><p><em> Okay, </em> he says, and lets himself be pulled into the sheets beside the boy who will be his end, who will ruin him one day.  <em> Okay, </em> he says, and it will be this complacency that will kill him.</p><p>He lies there, unbelievably tense as Talon curls up next to him, body warm against his.  He tries to sleep, like he should, like he needs to, but whenever he closes his eyes he sees things that make his eyes flit open in guilt.</p><p>“Why?” Talon breathes, after far too much silence, and Swain’s mouth is suddenly dry.</p><p>“I needed time,” he rasps.</p><p>“For what?”</p><p>“To think.”</p><p>“Did you think of me?”</p><p>“Always,” he whispers, and it’s the truth.  The boy haunts his every thought, his every dream, with his thoughtless endearments and untamed affection; he tempts him always, slipping into his bed and pulling him close like there is nothing more natural than this.  How could he not think of him?</p><p>He doesn’t say anything for a while after that and Swain doesn’t know whether to be more unsettled or grateful.</p><p>“Why don’t you want me?” he breathes.</p><p>“I…” He trails off, not knowing what to say.  Perhaps there is nothing <em> to </em> say, because underneath his coldness, his indifference, there <em> is </em> desire and want and all the things there shouldn’t be where his ward is concerned.  He is old enough to be his father and for all intents and purposes, Swain might as well be.  It is sick, what he feels for him, and he has never let himself forget it.</p><p>“Is there—” His voice shakes and the sound makes Swain’s chest tighten. “Is there something wrong with me?”</p><p>“No, boy,” he says, voice hoarse. “Never.”</p><p>“Then why?”</p><p>“It would not be right,” he says, and he cannot stop the sadness that leaks into his words, that betray him even as he forces himself to stay true. “You are my ward.  My responsibility.  I cannot…”</p><p>“Can’t what?” he asks, voice raw, and Swain finds he has no response, no carefully crafted words that will not bring his walls come crashing down around him.</p><p>Can’t love him as a soulmate should?  Can’t hold him like they’re more than what they are, can’t touch him like Talon wants him to, can’t give in like <em> he </em> wants to?  But no matter how much he tries to hide it behind pursed lips and displeased frowns, Swain already does.  He shouldn’t be here, with Talon wrapped around him, his face buried in his chest.  It is too late; already he has given him too much.</p><p>Talon falls asleep in his arms and Swain, despite himself, does too.</p><p>-</p><p>He dreams, that night, of a warm body against his, soft and pliant for him, only him.  He dreams of widened dark eyes and messy brown hair, soft against his fingers, of parted thighs and arms that pull him ever closer into the heat, of soft moans and fluttering lashes, and when he wakes, hard and aching, Swain tears himself from the sheets and flees for the first time in his life.</p><p>-</p><p>When Talon wakes up in the morning to empty sheets and a splitting headache, he thinks it all must have been a dream.  Swain is not here, was never here, and even if he was, he would not slip into bed beside him or let him rest his head upon his chest or whisper in such a sad, dejected tone that coveted <em> always, </em>because this is reality, and in reality, Swain does not want Talon the way Talon wants him or love him the way Talon wants to be loved.</p><p>-</p><p>Talon is getting ready to ride over to the Du Couteau manor when the door to the guest room comes creaking open and Swain comes out, shirt wrinkled and hair tousled with sleep.  His breath catches at the sight of him, surprise and wonder intermingled in his gaze.  He looks nice like this, Talon thinks, even as he knows he should be seething with rage and hurt right now.  </p><p>“You’re home,” Talon says, and Swain tenses at the sight of him. “And you didn’t wake me up?”</p><p>“I—” He quirks a brow as if he doesn’t quite understand what he’s asking and it makes the anger and hurt with him flare up like a rash.  Swain doesn’t get to leave for nearly two years and stop writing for over half of that time and then pretend like nothing is wrong.  He doesn’t get to play dumb, not when Talon’s hurting as much as he is. “I’m sorry.  I thought it best to let you sleep.”</p><p>Talon frowns and drops his bag to the ground.  Swain watches it fall to the ground, emotionless as always, and maybe that’s what sets him off, what makes him so angry.</p><p>“Why— <em> how </em> could you do that to me?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even, but his anger leaks in nonetheless. “How could you just leave like that?  You left me and ignored me for over a year and never told me why and then— and then you send me one letter and think everything is okay?”</p><p>He’s so lost in his own emotions that he doesn’t notice he’s crossed the room until he’s fisting his hands in the thin fabric of Swain’s night shirt, knuckles going white at the pressure.  Talon can’t meet his eyes as he speaks, too scared that he will see only annoyance and disappointment at his emotional outburst, unbefitting of any Noxian, much less the heir of his noble house.  He looks at the floor instead.</p><p>“I missed you, you know.  I missed you and all I could think about was what I could have done wrong.  I asked you, but you never answered, and I didn’t know if you weren’t getting my letters or if you were ignoring me or if maybe I wasn’t getting yours.”  </p><p>He’s rambling now and he knows it, knows how stupid he sounds, how immature, and maybe this is the reason Swain doesn’t want him like that, but Talon can’t find it in him to care.  He keeps going, too lost in his own hurt to hear it when Swain whispers his name, quiet and timid, nothing at all like the great, imposing general Talon knows.</p><p>“Talon,” Swain repeats, hands coming to envelop his. “Look at me.”</p><p>And despite himself, he does.</p><p>They’re close, so close, and Talon <em> aches. </em>  He can see every detail of Swain’s face like this, can see the flecks of brown in the black of his eyes, the thin scars that jut across his skin, the gentle downwards tug of his lips.  Swain looks down at him, impossibly sad, and it reminds Talon of what he can’t have for reasons he doesn’t understand.</p><p>“I never meant to hurt you,” Swain murmurs, after a moment, and he sounds so <em> small. </em> “I… I am sorry.”</p><p>It shouldn’t be enough; from anyone else, it wouldn’t be enough, but it’s <em> Swain, </em> Swain whose boldness sets him apart from every other general, whose stern frown and stiff jaw makes greater men quiver in fear, who’s cool and calculated and the furthest from emotional as one can be.  The words carry the weight of a million unsaid confessions, of promises and apologies that Swain cannot put into any other words.  </p><p>“Never again,” Talon says, fiercely.</p><p>“Never again,” Swain echoes, and it’s a promise.</p><p>-</p><p>“I already had a party,” Swain grumbles.</p><p>“Nonsense,” Marcus says, smiling brightly, happy for any excuse to throw a party at Swain’s expense. “With your newfound fame and your generous— ah, <em> loot— </em>it’s only proper.”</p><p>He says it as if that’s supposed to make sense, like Swain’s the one who’s supposed to throw a party to celebrate his return when he cares little for parties and even less for spending money in frivolous affairs.</p><p>“And it wasn’t <em> your </em> party,” Marcus continues. “It was Talon’s and you weren’t even there for most of it.”</p><p>“I distinctly recall you drinking <em> my </em> wine in <em> my </em> house on <em> my </em>sofa, Marcus.”</p><p>“Do you?” Marcus asks with a self-satisfied grin. “Because I certainly do not.”</p><p>“You are insufferable.”</p><p>“And you are having a party, my friend,” he says and slaps him affectionately across the back.  “So how are you and your boy?”</p><p>He says it like it’s a joke, like he doesn’t quite care, but the gleam in his eyes tells him otherwise.  It reminds him of a morning years ago and it should disquiet him, but it’s <em> Marcus, </em>and no matter how ruthlessly clever he can be, Swain knows it’s always to his benefit.</p><p>“He was in my bed, Marcus,” Swain says.</p><p>“And you didn’t—”</p><p>
  <em> “No.”  </em>
</p><p>“Ah.”</p><p>“But I wanted to,” he confesses. “And I almost…”</p><p>Flashes of that night fill his head, dizzying, intoxicating.  He thinks of how he’d wanted, how easy it would have been to just <em> give in. </em>  To hold him close, lithe body pressed against his chest, to press soft kisses into his hair, against his back, against his ear.  To take him as he so desperately wants to be taken.</p><p>
  <em> No, stop this.  You can’t—  </em>
</p><p>Marcus raises a brow and it sobers him, just a little.</p><p>For a while, there is only silence.</p><p>“I left,” he finishes, and says no more.  Marcus does not press further and for that, he is grateful.</p><p>-</p><p>The party is much the same as all of Marcus’s parties, except grander and much more excessive than Swain believes is necessary.  Marcus, of course, planned the whole thing, while Swain paid for it.</p><p>There are guests swarming his estate grounds, most of whom Swain has never seen nor heard of before, and it begins to seem like Marcus simply invited all of Noxus.  Marcus had told him that now was the time to increase his popularity, that taking advantage of his newfound fame and adoration was only the smart thing to do, especially when— in his words— the whole of Noxus knows Darkwill is going senile.  Swain had frowned, but gone along with it nonetheless.</p><p>And that is why he is here now, sifting through the crowd with Talon perched happily at his side, instead of with his friends.  The boy’s hand wraps around the curve of his arm, right beneath his words, attached to him in a way that reminds him, traitorously, terribly, like Soreana and Marcus.</p><p>They spend the evening greeting everyone from wealthy merchants from other lands to lowborn soldiers to Darkwill himself, and between each one, Swain can’t stop the smile that slips onto his lips every time Talon huffs a rather impolite description of the guest in question.  It is improper and Swain should be berating him when he calls one of the Legion marauders a mindless brute with only sincerity and indignance, but Swain only laughs and agrees quietly.</p><p>Usually, these hours-long affairs seem to last an eternity, but Swain finds it goes by much quicker with Talon at his side.  Talon, who looks up at him with hopeful eyes each time he makes a snide comment, who tightens his grasp around his arm whenever a particularly ardent suitor makes his acquaintance, and laughs every time he inevitably turns them away.</p><p>Still, they are nothing.  They are soulmates, yes, but they are not lovers, not friends; they are nothing more than guardian and ward, head and heir.  It is as they should be.  Despite what Talon wants (what <em> he </em> wants), he lets them become nothing more.</p><p>Except guardians do not let their wards wrap their slender fingers around their arms in a manner too possessive to be normal or scare off potential suitors with sharp comments and penetrating gazes.  They do not think helplessly of their ward’s easy smiles and wondrous laughter or bend easily to their wills at the sight of innocent wide eyes.  They do not let themselves be pulled into bed beside them and they <em> certainly </em> do not dream of them like <em> that. </em></p><p>“I have been standing for far too long,” Swain mutters, later into the night. </p><p>“Then sit, old man,” Talon teases, looking up at him. “We can join Kat.  Though she seems little busy.”</p><p>“I am not old,” he says indignantly, before finding Katarina sitting at the bar, drinking with Darius. “But I do think I would like that.”</p><p>Talon laughs and pulls him through the sea of flushed guests, as the stench of sweet perfume and imported flowers floods his senses.  He thinks, for a moment, that he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be letting the boy drag him around from place to place or cling to him like he’s the only thing he has left in the world.</p><p>It will only make it harder, in the end, to push him away.</p><p>-</p><p>“General!” Katarina shouts with a too loose smile. “I see you’ve been enjoying yourself.”</p><p>“And you’ve been enjoying my wine almost as much as your father has,” Swain says good-naturedly.  He is rather fond of her; she’s Marcus’s eldest and likely the most reasonable of all the Du Couteaus.    </p><p>“General,” Darius greets, grinning. “You look well.  Talon.”</p><p>Darius is a man grown now, matured by his years at war, by his time in the army.  He has become a competent leader, a half-decent strategist, a dutiful soldier, and a loyal friend.  He and Draven have become something like sons to him, the affection wholly unlike whatever it is he feels for Talon.  He wonders if Talon feels it too and hopes he doesn’t.</p><p>“Darius,” Talon says, mirroring the smile.  There’s a hint of something in his voice, a <em> lilt, </em> one that sends a flurry of baseless possessiveness growing in his chest.  He does nothing, says nothing, but the boy seems to sense his displeasure anyway and leans further into his heat as if to comfort him, as if to reassure him that he is <em> his. </em></p><p>As if he needs that.  Swain is no <em> child. </em></p><p>(It makes him happy anyway.)</p><p>“Drink with us,” Katarina says. “It is yours, after all.”</p><p>“I’ll have to decline,” he says. “Your father will be expecting a speech soon.”</p><p>She rolls her eyes, seeing right through the excuse.  He just doesn’t like to drink, truthfully.  He says it dulls the senses, weakens the mind, and Marcus has always teased him for it, ever since they were young.</p><p>“Well, <em> I </em>don’t have a speech,” Talon says, taking the glass Katarina passes him.  He takes a large gulp of the red wine and a drop of it trails down the corner of his lips.  He watches it, strangely enraptured, as it slips down his chin, before Talon wipes it away, gazing up at him with a knowing grin.</p><p>He drinks just a little more, and the alcohol seems to loosen his tongue just a little, makes him touchier than he already is and laugh a little more easily.  Swain stares down at him with fondness as he laughs with Katarina about the outcome of one of her missions and when Darius catches his eyes after, he quirks a brow and smiles, crooked and curious.</p><p>He’s about to say something to defend himself, feeling strangely exposed, but Marcus sidles up to him before he can even opens his mouth, telling him that is presence is requested among the people.</p><p>“They’re simply dying to hear from you,” Marcus says, rather unconvincingly. “The Hero of Noxus!”</p><p>“I’m sure,” Swain says, smiling wryly. “I suppose I will just have to oblige them.”</p><p>“Yes!” Marcus exclaims happily, clapping a hand on his back.  He turns to Talon. “You don’t mind if I borrow him for a moment, do you, boy?”</p><p>“Go ahead,” Talon says, grinning with easy confidence that Swain very rarely sees around Marcus.  It’s always, <em> yes, master, of course, master, </em> with Talon, always desperate to please, to impress.  He has grown much and it makes Swain <em> proud. </em>  Talon turns to him then and pulls him in close, voice warm against his ear as he whispers, “Don’t be long.”</p><p>Swain pointedly does <em> not </em> think about the implication of it all, of asking Talon like he is his keeper or his doting wife.</p><p>(He finds it doesn’t unsettle him nearly as much as it should.)</p><p>Instead, he nods slowly and murmurs, “I will see you soon.” </p><p>Marcus pulls him away soon after, and it’s only after they’re gone that he feels the cold absence of Talon’s body pressed against his.</p><p>-</p><p>The night is perfect, perhaps <em> too </em> perfect, and Talon is— Talon is <em> happy. </em>  Swain hasn’t pushed him away or told him off once about getting too close, and it makes his heart sing with joy.  The thought makes his chest swell with the hope that maybe this isn’t some temporary thing, that maybe this means acceptance at last.</p><p>Kat looks at him fondly, but there is an edge, a wariness, to it that tells him more than he cares to know, that this will not last, that it cannot last.  It breaks the spell, just a little, and Talon resists the urge to frown.  He will not ruin this night with thoughts of what might come and what might not.</p><p>“So what happened?” she asks, when Swain is gone.  It is light and airy, like she doesn’t really care, but Talon knows better; they both know.</p><p>“He apologized,” he says, purposefully vague.  He doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to hear Kat tell him this is all a bad idea, that soulmates or not, it’s wrong, it’s stupid, it’s doomed. “So where’s Cass?”</p><p>“You don’t care where she is,” she says and the hardness in it surprises even Darius, who seems to have just started paying attention.</p><p>“Where’s Cass, Darius?” Talon asks instead.</p><p>“Talon—”</p><p>“She’s with Draven,” he says and Talon should be affected, offended even, by the fact that Draven is probably locked in one of the manor’s many rooms with <em> his </em> girl, but she was never really his and he was never really hers anyway.</p><p>“Ah,” he says, shortly, and Kat’s frown deepens.</p><p>“Talon.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“He didn’t—”</p><p><em> Didn’t what? </em> he wants to ask, but Darius is here and they’re surrounded by too many people for to be having this conversation.  He doesn’t quite know the answer; he knows Kat is worried about him, but doesn’t know why.  She doesn’t get it like he does, doesn’t understand the importance, the <em> pull </em> of a soulmark.  She’s never even met her soulmate.</p><p>“No,” he says, before she can finish.  Darius is watching intently now and Swain and his relationship are none of his business. Talon’s not ashamed of it, of course, because why would he be?  No, the matter is just private.  Something between them and only them.  “Of course not.”</p><p>“Uh, should I—” Darius starts.</p><p><em> “No,” </em> Talon says, even as Kat grits out, “Yes.”</p><p>“Okay, well, I—”</p><p>“Stay,” Talon says, gripping Darius’s arm.  He stays. “What are you so worried about, anyway?”</p><p>“He’s not <em> ready,” </em> she says. “And I don’t think you are ready for what comes after he realizes it.”</p><p>“We’re fine,” he says.  And then, <em> “I’m </em>fine.”</p><p>She drops it after that and it doesn’t take long for them to start talking about Cass and Draven who have just come back from whatever it is they’ve been doing for the past hour or so.  Talon feels her gaze on him, but he doesn’t look back, not once.  He doesn’t need her, doesn’t need the judging stares and her biting words anymore.</p><p>Kat starts telling Darius about Draven’s escapades back in the capital while he was off at war and soon they are back to laughing like nothing ever happened.  It fills Talon with relief and lets him pretend Kat’s words aren’t echoing the back of his mind like a broken record.</p><p>It’s nothing, he tells himself.  For once, they’re <em> good. </em>   Swain is back and safe and is <em> sorry. </em>  He apologized and Swain never apologizes, not to anyone except him.  He would not tolerate that weakness, save for him.  </p><p>Talon thinks back to the morning after his birthday, of Swain’s hands over his, of that indescribable flood of warmth and affection in his eyes as he’d touched him, and the way his fingers grazed absently against his cheek afterward, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.</p><p>Swain had given him his gift then, a set of daggers that seemed to glitter in the light, and after, Swain had let Talon hug him freely, let him bury his head in his chest, a taste of everything he’d ever wanted. </p><p>He’s showing affection in the only way he knows how, Talon thinks, <em> hopes.  </em>This isn’t whatever Kat thinks it is:  a momentary glimpse of what could be, of what should be, bound to become mere memory.  This is real.  Permanent.  The beginning of a million little blessings just waiting to be given.</p><p>-</p><p>When Swain finds him again, after the party, Talon is lying on the couch, the top button of his shirt undone, arm thrown over his eyes, lips parted ever so slightly.  Katarina sits on the floor with her back against the couch, legs splayed out in front of her, while Darius is slumped beside her, drowsily muttering something about rebellious little brothers and the woes of responsibility.</p><p>Most of the guests have left by now, shooed at by the servants Marcus hired for this singular event, since Swain had apparently neglected to appropriately staff his home.  It was ridiculous; he had no need of maids or butlers when he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, of Talon.</p><p>“Your father is planning on spending the night in the guest room,” he says, and Katarina looks up. “You are welcome to stay in one of the guest rooms or—” He hesitates for a moment. “With Talon.”</p><p>“I’ll take the guest room,” she says and nudges Darius. “Up.”</p><p>He watches in silence as Katarina drags Darius to his feet and nudges him down the hall.  When he disappears, she stops beside Swain, eyeing Talon’s sleeping form.</p><p>“Don’t keep doing this to him,” she says, with a hint of resignation. “He cares too much.  Hopes too much.”</p><p>He frowns.</p><p>“I don’t—”</p><p>“He told me, Swain,” she says, quiet. “And even if he hadn’t, everyone sees it.  You are letting him too close and all you’re going to do is let him down again.”</p><p>It is silent, for a while, and Swain does not know what to say.  He doesn’t even know what to think.  He should be appalled, insulted at the thought of being lectured by his subordinate, but instead he feels only a deep-seated mixture of resignation and regret.</p><p>“Go to sleep, Katarina,” he says.  He doesn’t know how long he stands there before Talon rouses, eyes flitting open and a sleepy smile already forming on his lips at the sight of him.  And what did he ever do to deserve this?  To have someone as precious, as pure, look at him like <em> that? </em>  Talon stretches out languidly across the couch, and blinks once, twice, lashes fluttering in a way that makes Swain’s heart stutter.</p><p>“Swain,” Talon murmurs softly, fondly.</p><p>“I’m taking you to bed,” Swain says, and Talon lets himself be hoisted up and escorted to his rooms.  He drapes his body over Swain’s and the familiar warmth of him comforts him in ways he doesn’t quite like to think about.</p><p>Their footsteps echo throughout the hall and for a moment, Swain’s afraid that Marcus or Soreana will walk out and catch them like this even though there is nothing truly wrong with their position.</p><p>When they get to Talon’s room, Swain eases him onto his bed, Talon’s thighs spread on either side of him.  They’re staring at each other, Talon’s brown eyes black, unreadable in the night.  He should leave now, before something happens, before he lets him <em> too close, </em>before he lets him down again, before— </p><p>Talon’s hands move before he can finish the thought, gliding over his shoulders and pausing at the crook of his neck, testing, feeling, until he’s satisfied.  He rests his arms over shoulders, wrists crossed behind his head, and draws him closer and closer still until their breaths mix between them, warm and sweet with the scent of red wine.</p><p>He is magnetizing.</p><p>“Talon,” he breathes.  It’s meant to come out as a warning, but there’s only heat and want and pent up desire in his voice. “Talon, I—-”</p><p>He silences him with a kiss, takes his breath away in a single effortless motion.  His lips are soft against his, soft like he’d always imagined, soft like innocence, soft like him.  For a moment, all Swain can think see hear smell <em> taste </em> is Talon.  He floods his senses like nothing else— no one else— can, dizzying, intoxicating, beautiful.</p><p>He presses forward before he can think twice, hands cupping Talon’s face as he tilts their heads to deepen the kiss.  When Swain pushes for more, Talon’s lips part easily, wet and pliant beneath his tongue, and the moan that slips past Talon’s lips— high and dripping with need— sends arousal shooting through him like madness.  He can still taste the wine on his lips, on his tongue, sharp and sweet.</p><p>It feels good, feels right.  It feels like— <em> destiny. </em>  </p><p>When their lips part, Swain’s heart pounds in his chest and he can hear the blood rushing through his ears, loud and pulsing.  Talon’s hands are now buried in his shirt, fists clenched around the expensive fabric as if his life depends on it.  He presses their foreheads together, damp with sweat, because suddenly it’s hot— too hot— and Swain can’t <em> take it.   </em></p><p>“I can’t,” Swain whispers, breathless, predictable.  Katarina is young and impulsive and insubordinate, but in this moment, she is right.  It is wrong what he is doing; he is taking advantage, taking advantage of his ward— this <em> boy, </em> who loves him, trusts him, and foolishly wants him.  He shouldn’t— <em> can’t </em> do this.  And it is better to push him away now than to risk what will inevitably come after.</p><p>Soulmates or not, Talon will realize it, will see Swain for what he is, what he let happen.  This infatuation will pass, as all teenage crushes do, and he will finally realize that it is not Swain he wants, not Swain that he <em> needs. </em>   And selfishly, Swain tells himself he will not be <em> here </em> when it happens.</p><p>“You can,” Talon breathes, voice low with want.  There is all the certainty in the world in his voice, the certainty of a naive child. “I want— <em> I need—” </em></p><p>“It is wrong,” he says, echoing what his thoughts have told him from the beginning. “You don’t…” And the look in Talon’s eyes as he stares up at him, hopelessly vulnerable, makes him hesitate. “You don’t know what you want.”</p><p>“I do,” he says, desperate and pleading like a prayer. “I do, I do, I know I do.”  They stay there, frozen, for a moment, breath hot against each other’s skin, and still Swain does not speak.  “Please don’t go.  Not again, I— I—”</p><p>Talon moves to press his lips against his once again, but Swain pushes him away, hand firm against his chest.  He wraps a hand around Talon’s wrist and he can feel the way the boy trembles beneath his touch.  Guilt flares in his gut and it only makes him more sure that he cannot let this happen.</p><p>He pulls Talon’s hands from his chest gently.  He does not fight it.  Does not protest.  Does not do anything but let his hands fall limply to his sides and stare down at the ground as Swain turns and goes, shutting the door behind him with a click. </p><p>-</p><p>He’d been so close, <em> so close, </em>to getting what he’s always wanted, to having the very thing he’s longed for for years.</p><p><em> She warned you, </em> Talon thinks. <em> She warned you and you knew she was right and yet—  </em></p><p>And yet it doesn’t hurt any less.</p><p>-</p><p>When he wakes, the Du Couteaus are chatting delightedly with Darius and Draven about the fighting pits of Noxus.  It is a mystery to him how they can talk so loudly so soon after a night of debauchery and likely way too much alcohol.  As he walks out, everyone turns to him, greeting him with bright smiles and a steaming plate of scrambled eggs and bacon.</p><p>But Katarina— Katarina does not look at him once.</p><p>“Where’s Swain?” he asks.  The conversation seems to stop and Marcus claps a hand on his back, like he does with Swain.  Talon supposes it’s meant to be comforting, but the gesture only sets him further on edge.</p><p>“He mentioned some business he had to take care of last night,” Marcus says airily. “He’s likely still sleeping.”</p><p>“Come now, child,” Soreana says, patting the seat beside her where his plate awaits. “Before your food gets cold.”</p><p>He frowns, but settles down beside her nonetheless, and it’s as if the whole room exhales in relief, because they go right back to their idle conversations.  He eats in silence, answering Master Du Couteau’s questions as they come and smiling weakly as Soreana compliments his manners and prowess among other things.  Eventually, they get lost into their own conversations, allowing Talon to slip away without anyone noticing.</p><p>He finds himself in front of Swain’s closed door, fist raised, about to knock.  He doesn’t know why he hesitates, doesn’t know exactly what he’s afraid of.  Talon supposes it can’t get much worse; he’s been pushed away by his soulmate too many times to count for too many reasons he cannot even begin to comprehend.</p><p>He turns the doorknob and to his surprise, it turns easily.  Slowly he cracks open the door, his heart racing with dread for whatever he finds behind that door.</p><p>“Swain?” he whispers.  Then louder, “Swain?”</p><p>When he enters, the bed is perfectly made, untouched from the morning before.  His night clothes are still neatly folded atop his sheets.  He did not sleep here, likely didn’t even come here after putting him to bed.  His heart pangs with hurt and for a moment, he stands there, hollow and numb, before the anger comes rushing through.  He’s angry at himself, furious that he believed things would be different, that something would change this time.</p><p>He feels like crying, like screaming, like breaking every little precious artifact Swain displays so lovingly on his walls, a testament to his achievements.  He wants to tear it all down, to hurt him the way he’s hurt him so many times before.</p><p>Katarina is waiting in the hall for him when he leaves.  She says nothing when she sees him, broken and shaking.  She says nothing as he approaches her, meeting her eyes, not bothering to conceal the pain and hurt.  And still, she says nothing when he collapses into her arms, clinging to her like she’s the only thing he has left.</p><p>-</p><p>Talon does not see him for days.</p><p>He is sent on a mission before he sees him again.  The target is easy, a merchant visiting from Ixaocan, intent on returning home with some contraband.  The orders come from Master Du Couteau, straight from Darkwill.</p><p>He is tempted to ask about Swain; no doubt Du Couteau knows where he is right now.  Marcus knows everything about Swain, every thought that runs through that wondrous mind, every muted emotion that swims through his cold heart, and Talon wishes he did, too.  Wishes Swain would let him.</p><p>The merchant falls easily, and when Talon slits his throat and tosses his still-warm body into the ocean, he feels nothing.  No thrill, no satisfaction, no sense of <em> power. </em>  No, Talon feels nothing.</p><p>He takes back the package Darkwill asked for:  a crimson box lined with gold that he assumes is one of the ancient relics Swain had talked about.  It seems to thrum with some power that Talon doesn’t quite understand and he makes a mental note to ask Swain about it, except— he can’t, can he?</p><p>Talon makes his way to the audience chamber; Darkwill had requested for him to deliver the box personally, so here he was, making the pointlessly long trek up the Stairs of Triumph.  The guards lined up on each side let him go without a word.  It seems like forever before he gets to the top of the steps and stands in awe before the massive steel doors that block his path.</p><p>He doesn’t think he will ever get used to the sight of it, not when Swain goes on and on about the symbolism in every minor aspect of Noxian architecture.  </p><p>They let him in almost instantly and when he enters, the first person he sees is not Darkwill sitting lazily atop his iron throne, but Swain— cold, impassive, lovely Swain— who stands, arms crossed at Darkwill’s right hand.  His figure is shrouded in darkness, save the bit of light that shines through the singular window behind the dais.  Talon looks straight at him, trying to catch his gaze, but Swain stares straight ahead as if he is not even there at all.</p><p>He bows, low as always, and presents the box to Darkwill.  He doesn’t really know what happens, isn’t really paying attention to the ingratiating words of his emperor.  All he knows is that the worthless box is taken from him and that Swain refuses to look at him even for a second.</p><p>It is infuriating, this silence.  He wants to ask what he is so afraid of, what is so wrong about just letting fate run its course.  Talon is old enough, strong enough, he is everything Swain has taught him to be and yet— and yet.  Still he is not enough for him.</p><p>He is dismissed before he can say a word.</p><p>-</p><p>It is late at night when Swain comes home.  Talon is lying in bed when he realizes it, staring up at the ceiling, wide awake.  The wood floors creak beneath Swain’s feet as he makes his way to his bedroom and he hears the click of his door as he shuts it behind him.  The walls are thin and when Swain steps into the bathroom to shower, Talon can hear the sharp squeak of the faucet and torrent of water as it rains down upon him.</p><p>He shuts his eyes, willing sleep to take him before his thoughts can wander and crush him further.  It does not work; inevitably, they wander back to the night a week ago.  If he thinks hard enough, he swears he can feel the ghost of Swain’s lips against his, a trace of the heat and want and desire he <em> knows </em> was there.</p><p>When the water stops, Talon moves.  He shouldn’t, should stay right here where it’s safe, so he doesn’t give himself more reasons to hate himself for his naivete.  He doesn’t, because of course not.  He’s not like Kat; he doesn’t learn from his mistakes like she does, doesn’t think before he acts, doesn’t consider the consequences beyond getting what he <em> wants. </em></p><p>So that’s how he finds himself outside of Swain’s room, knocking petulantly at the door, and as soon as his knuckles make contact, the sounds from inside cease.  It is silent for so long that Talon considers turning around and going back to his room so Swain can go back to pretending nothing ever happened.  As ever.</p><p>When Swain opens the door, hair still wet from his shower, Talon almost falls into him.  Swain says nothing, just looks at him with something like sadness.</p><p>“Can I come in?” Talon asks, suddenly timid, like if he speaks too loud, everything will fall apart before it’s even begun.</p><p>“Yes,” Swain murmurs, and <em> God, </em> how he’s missed hearing that voice.  He steps aside to let him in and shuts the door behind him as Talon takes in the room, immaculate as always.  It is silent, then, but for the crackling of the fireplace.  He inhales, deeply and fully.</p><p>“Where were you?” he asks, trying to keep his voice from shaking.  He hears Swain moving around behind him, but he doesn’t turn.</p><p>“Work,” he says only.</p><p>“And then?”</p><p>Talon does turn then, desperate for an answer.  Swain is still by the door, looking at him with some muted emotion, restraining all the feelings Talon wishes he wouldn’t.  He wants, desperately, for him to let go, to stop thinking so hard for once, to reach out and take what Talon is so certain he wants.</p><p>Swain swallows, uncharacteristically nervous— a hint of vulnerability shown only to him. </p><p>Talon closes the distance between them slowly, giving him the chance to back away, to stop him, but nothing comes.  He stops just an inch away and suddenly, they’re back to that moment, closer than ever, with Talon’s hands splayed flat across Swain’s broad chest.  Swain’s breath hitches as he touches him, and Talon can feel the less than steady beat of his heart under his fingers.</p><p>“Where were you tonight?” Talon whispers, and isn’t sure he wants to know the answer. “With her?”</p><p>“Marcus,” he huffs.  Talon can smell the liquor in his breath and frowns. “With Marcus.”</p><p>“You’ve been drinking,” he says. “That’s not like you.”</p><p>Swain laughs suddenly, loudly and bitterly.  The sound grates on Talon’s ears, but he doesn’t back away.</p><p>“No, it is not, boy,” he says mirthlessly. “And it is not like me to allow children into my rooms in the dead of night, but here we are all the same.”</p><p>Anger flares within him at the comment, sudden and dangerous as a tempest.</p><p>“Is that how you see me?<em> ” </em> Talon hisses, grip tightening. “A child?”</p><p>“Yes,” he bites out, grabbing Talon’s wrists and tearing him off. “You are my ward, my responsibility.  We cannot— <em> I </em>cannot—”</p><p>“I’m <em> not </em> anymore,” he insists, voice rising uncontrollably. “I’m older now, I’ve <em> done </em> things that no child should do, seen things no child should see.  I— I’ve <em> killed.  </em> For <em> you. </em>  My soulmate.”  The last words come out quieter than the rest, hesitant and broken, like he’s not even sure if it’s true anymore.</p><p>“Soulmate,” he scoffs. “I have lived decades without a soulmate.  I can survive decades more.”</p><p>He’s sure it’s meant to sound cruel, but instead all Talon can hear is the resignation and anguish and it breaks his heart even as anger threatens to consume him.</p><p>“Is that what you want?” Talon asks coldly.</p><p>“It’s what is necessary.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because you don’t know what you want,” he says, for the second time, and Talon hates it. “Because you will grow tired of me.  You will realize I am not what you need.”</p><p>“I decide what I need,” he spits. “Not you.” </p><p>It’s like Swain’s whole tone shifts.</p><p>“Do you?” Swain asks, and it’s only when he grabs his hair and <em> pulls, </em> hard and unyielding, that Talon finally understands what it is like to be on the receiving end of Swain’s wrath.  He’s never been so aware of how tall Swain really is or how strong, how dangerous, he is, until now.</p><p>The kiss that comes is much the same— punishing, violent, bruising.  It’s meant to scare him, to push him away, but Talon is no coward; he wasn’t raised that way.  He kisses back just as hard, tasting him— the sharp tang of liquor, the bitter taste of guilt and frustration and self-denial— and lets himself be pushed back further and further until his back hits the side of Swain’s mattress.</p><p>It is Talon who presses for more, who parts his lips and demands entry with his tongue, urgency in every motion.  It is Talon who throws his arms over Swain’s shoulders and pulls him closer and closer still, until he can feel the jut of Swain’s arousal against his thigh.  It is Talon who rolls his hips, agonizingly slow, and elicits a deep moan from the other man that seems to vibrate through his entire being.</p><p>Swain releases his grip on his hair and then it’s like his hands are everywhere at once, trailing down the sweet expanse of his flushed skin until they stop briefly at the small of his back, before going down to squeeze the curve of his ass.  It makes Talon arch up into him and the friction is <em> maddening.  </em></p><p>“Is this what you want?” he hisses into the crook of his neck. “Is this what you need?”</p><p>“Swain,” he gasps against his lips, and when Swain palms the length of him through his pants, he whispers his name again and again, a plea.  He buries his head in the other man’s chest as he touches him, muffling soft cries in the fabric of Swain’s shirt.</p><p>He thrusts into Swain’s hand, desperate for friction, for touch, for attention, for any sign that Swain wants him just as bad as he does him.</p><p>“Is it?” he asks, voice rough with lust and anger.</p><p>“Please,” he begs.  <em> Please don’t leave, </em> he doesn’t say, and when Swain wraps a firm hand around his cock and strokes, Talon moans embarassingly loud and buries his head deeper into Swain’s chest.  It’s been so long since he’s been touched like this by another person.  </p><p>It’s always violence and fighting with him:  bruising matches with Kat and bloody scuffles with whatever guards his targets have left.  Even with Cassiopeia, it was always a fight; she bit at his tender flesh and clawed her way across his skin, tore at him in every meaning of the word until he bent to her will.  There was always something to prove beneath the heady haze of lust and desire, and now is only so different.</p><p>Now, Swain lets Talon hold him close, lets his hands wander Talon’s lithe figure with greed and want, looks at him with something more than the usual grief and resignation, something like fire and heat and need.  Swain lets himself go, lets himself squeeze and pull and <em> take, </em> lets himself claim what is his, what has always been his. </p><p>It is everything Talon’s ever wanted and yet <em> not. </em></p><p>When he spills in Swain’s hand, face heated and body aflame, Talon finds he can’t look at him.  If he does, maybe Swain will run away again, will shatter this whole dream and crush his fragile little heart again.  He doesn’t know how long he stays there, clinging to Swain, praying that he doesn’t notice how his legs wobble beneath him, how his lip trembles at the thought of this being over.</p><p>All he knows is that when Swain pushes him down onto the bed, calloused hands guiding him slowly onto the duvet, there is a tenderness and gentleness that wasn’t there before.  Gone is the desperation of before, the scalding heat, the mindless urgency.  Now there is only quiet need and silent desire and a hint of something more, something softer and pure and sweet.</p><p>Swain sits down beside him, eyes never leaving his lithe figure.  His fingers absently trace the hard lines of Talon’s torso, sending shivers coursing through his body.  Talon watches his face intently for any sign, any tell.  His expression is a mystery.</p><p>“Is this what you want?” Swain rasps, after a while.</p><p>“Yes,” he whispers. <em> Yes, yes, yes, please don’t go, I want you, I need you, I— </em> “I want— want more.  Want <em> you. </em>  All of you.”</p><p>The implication of it all makes Talon flush with a mix of embarrassment and need.  Swain stills for a while, lost in his own head.</p><p>“Stop thinking so hard,” Talon bites out, gripping his wrist and holding it flush against his skin. “I want this.”</p><p>“Have you ever…” Swain trails off.</p><p>“No,” Talon says, quiet. “But I want it to be you.”</p><p>And that is when Talon knows he has him.</p><p>-</p><p>Everything is slow, after that.</p><p>Swain presses sweet kisses across his muscled frame, light and fleeting.  Talon arches into each one with a quiet moan that shouldn’t be quite so arousing as it is.  He lets his hands wander freely for the first time; he’s wanted this for so long, but never in his wildest dreams has he ever imagined this.</p><p>“Tell me what you want,” Swain murmurs into his skin, breath hot against his neck.  He’s beautiful like this, tanned skin flushed red with need, pink nipples hardening beneath his touch.  His hair is a mess and it clings to his forehead, made slick with sweat, and Swain resists the urge to brush it out of his face.</p><p>“You,” Talon whimpers, arching sweetly into every touch, every bite. “Want you in me.”</p><p>He takes his time preparing him, fingers slick with oil as he slips one, then two inside him; he swallows each moan that slips from his lips with fervor, kissing him breathless, until Talon’s pleading for more, begging for something thicker than the press of his rough fingers inside him.  He pulls them out and watches him for a moment, taking in the sight of him, lips parted and cheeks stained a lovely pink, his thighs spread open just for him.</p><p>“Swain,” he cries. <em> “Swain.” </em></p><p>His name sounds filthy on his lips, hot like liquid sin.  Swain <em> aches </em> for him, but he takes it slow all the same, nudging the head of his cock against his entrance.</p><p><em> “Please,” </em> Talon begs. “Please, Swain, I— <em> ah— </em>”</p><p>When he pushes it in, the moan Talon lets out is open-mouthed and <em> lewd, </em> and when Swain buries himself inside him, the noise he makes sounds like damnation itself.  His thrusts are slow and measured, and it takes everything in him not to lose control right away, to fuck him the way he wants to, to make him fall apart beneath him.</p><p>Instead, he watches Talon’s face, the way his lips part with every motion, his lashes fluttering open with each roll of his hips.  He wonders briefly what he must have done to deserve this privilege, to have Talon writhing beneath him in pleasure, his sweet moans filling the air between them.  He brings his hands to either side of Talon’s body, thumbs brushing over warm skin until they stop at his hips.</p><p>“What do you want?” Swain rumbles, voice low and ragged.  He thrusts into hard into him once more, deep and penetrating.</p><p><em> “Fuck,” </em> he gasps. <em> “Yes, </em> please, Swain, <em> faster—” </em></p><p>It’s like a dam breaks inside him, because then is when he lets go, when he relinquishes all control and <em> takes. </em>  He leans in close, burying one hand in the sheets beside Talon’s head and wrapping the other around the length of Talon’s cock, and claims what it is, leaving marks across Talon’s unblemished skin and sucking bruises into the crook of his neck.</p><p>He quickens his pace, keeping his thrusts in line with each stroke of his hand, relishing in every noise that escapes Talon’s lips.  The boy grips his back, fingertips digging into his flesh hard enough to bruise, even as he begs for more, a litany of curses and pleas and praise flowing out of his lips like a flood.</p><p>It’s perfect, yet so, so wrong, but in the moment, Swain can’t bring himself to care, can’t bring himself to think beyond the feeling of Talon wrapped tightly around his cock and the pleasure shooting through him with each roll of his hips.  </p><p>When Talon pulls him closer, pressing their foreheads together, that’s when Swain knows he’s close, can feel the tension building up inside, the way the boy clenches around him, hot and tight.  He can hear the blood rushing through his ears, the rapid beat of his heart pounding in chest, and yet all he can see is him, him, <em> him. </em></p><p>“Swain, I’m— I—” he gasps, breath hot against his face.</p><p>“Come for me,” he says, voice ragged, and Talon looks up at him from beneath those dark lashes, eyes dark with desire. “Talon,” he breathes, saying his name for the first time this night; it comes out needy and desperate, pleading like a prayer. <em> “Talon— God, Talon.” </em></p><p>He spills inside him and Talon follows soon after, hot release spilling over his fist and across Talon’s bare chest.  He thrusts once, twice, riding out the waves of his orgasm.  He collapses into the sheets beside him, panting, adrenaline draining away by the second.  When Talon throws the blanket over them and curls up beside him, head buried in the crook of neck, Swain finds he is much too tired to protest.</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>LOL OOPS apparently my formatting did not save /)-(\</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Talon wakes up, Swain is already in the shower.  The bed is still warm where he once was and Talon basks in the heat, inhales the familiar scent of him.  He wonders, for a moment, if it would be too much to join him in there, if Swain would pull him in close and run soapy fingers through his hair or let his hands roam freely across his body and take him again right there.</p><p>He decides against it; he doesn’t want to break this fragile peace, doesn’t want to ruin what little he has when he has the chance of keeping this forever.  It feels good to have this, to wake up and know Swain is still here, that Swain had wanted him, that he was <em> right. </em>  </p><p>Eventually, the water stops and he listens quietly as Swain gets out of the shower.  He doesn’t come out right after, so Talon assumes he’d taken his clothes inside.  A part of him wishes he hadn’t though, wishes he got to witness Swain just out of the shower, hair still dripping wet and towel hanging low on his waist.  He wonders if Swain would let him wrap his arms around his waist, let him bury his head into his back, just to feel his skin against him.  He imagines buttoning the front of Swain’s dress shirt, nimble fingers brushing against heated skin, imagines smoothing out the lapels of his suit, and straightening his tie.  It’s all terribly domestic and for a second, Talon blushes.  He wonders if Swain would like that.  Domesticity.  Settling.  With him.</p><p>It’s stupid and Kat would laugh at him, but he can’t help but <em> think. </em></p><p>He’s lost in his thoughts when Swain finally comes out of the bathroom, dressed in immaculately in black, belt wrapped tightly around his hips.  Steel adorns his chest, his feet, and his cape cascades from his back in a waterfall of Noxus red.  </p><p>He is dressed for war.</p><p>He looks surprised to see him awake and a stab of betrayal rushes through him.</p><p>“Where are you going?” Talon asks, and he can’t keep the panic out of his tone.  He sits up.  Swain looks away, jaw clenched.</p><p>“I have been called,” he says, voice even. “To Ionia.”</p><p>So they’re back to this.  To cold words and repressed feelings.  For some reason, he’s surprised and hurt and betrayed and everything shouldn’t be, because it was so— <em> predictable. </em>   And yet he had hoped.  Had thought things had changed.  Thought they were <em> good. </em></p><p>“You just came back,” he says, as if anything he says will make a difference.  As if he hasn’t already made up his mind. </p><p>“Do you think the Ionians care?” he asks dryly and Talon laughs, choked and bitter.</p><p>“You said— you said they didn’t need you over there.”  His voice shakes as he speaks and he hates it.  It makes him think of Cassiopeia, makes him think that maybe she was right, maybe he is weak and soft and everything he never thought he was.</p><p>“They do now,” he says, final.</p><p><em> What are you running from? </em> he wants to ask, but doesn’t, because he knows he won’t get an answer.  It is pointless, this.  He keeps trying and trying and trying and all it ever amounts to is this.</p><p>Talon watches him as he leaves in silence and even though Swain doesn’t look at him once, Talon hopes he feels his hurt, his quiet anger, burning a hole into his back and hopes it stings just as bad for him.  He lies there for a while, trying not think, trying to go back to sleep and forget this ever happened, but the sun’s just now rising, its light too bright for all the things he’s feeling right now.</p><p>He showers after, in his own room, scrubs his skin raw so he can’t feel his fingers on his hips, his lips against his chest, his teeth against his neck.  He spends the rest of the day with Kat who asks no questions, who holds him close and lets him bury his face in her chest, who is there for him when he needs her and doesn’t abandon him when it matters most.</p><p>-</p><p>Swain rides off, quickly, too quickly to be normal, for everything to be fine.  He’s running from this and he knows it, but he can’t think straight around that <em> boy </em> , can’t see anything past his want and guilt and everything in between.  He needs to go, to get away from here, from this, from <em> him, </em> and Darkwill’s missive was the perfect excuse.  He tells himself he has no choice, that duty calls, but he knows in his heart that this is nothing less than cowardice.</p><p>His soulmark burns as he goes and he <em> hates </em> it.  Hates that it gave him an excuse to give in, to write all of this off as fate and destiny and <em> meant to be. </em>  Hates it because it made him weak, convinced him for a moment that all of this was okay when he’d known it wasn’t.</p><p>The boy is young yet— just on the cusp of adulthood— inexperienced in the pleasures of life.  He sees a bit of Marcus in him, his passion, his stubborness, his single-minded persistence once he decides he wants something.  But Marcus— Marcus was never satisfied with just one thing.  Marcus always wanted more and more, to experience everything life had to offer before he settled down, and Swain doesn’t know if he can take it when Talon turns out the same way. </p><p>
  <em> God, Talon. </em>
</p><p>Flashes of the night before filter through his head.  They make him want to turn back around and take Talon into his arms, apologize until his voice is raw, until he can’t anymore.  He wants to erase the hurt that carved itself onto his lovely features and assure him that everything is okay, that he loves him, more than anything, more than his nation, more than right or wrong or even life itself.  He doesn’t.  No, instead he keeps going.</p><p>He takes the Leviathan and goes.  </p><p>Sails to Ionia and tells himself not to look back.</p><p>(He does.)</p><p>-</p><p>It’s been two months and Swain hasn’t written.  It’s his fault too, Talon supposes; he hadn’t written either, but his pride won’t let him, because he tells himself he’s done, that he doesn’t need Swain anymore, won’t just stand there and wait for what little affection he’s ready to give like a kicked dog.</p><p>He sleeps at Kat’s apartment in the center of the city now, helping her with chores and running errands for her.  It’s nice, being away from that damned house where the memories don’t let him sleep and the walls constantly remind him of everything he can’t have.  It’s nice being with Kat who cares, Kat who always put him first, who loves him despite his recklessness and imperfections.  Kat, his best friend, who is everything Swain should be to him.</p><p>Life goes on.  Talon makes kill after kill in the name of the empire.  He carries out mission after mission, never hearing anything about the war raging in Ionia, except from Kat and Darius.  He visits the Du Couteaus every Sunday evening for dinner with the family, where he’s scolded for not eating more and not visiting often enough.  Everything is as it should be.  </p><p>(At least, that’s what he tells himself when the ache gets too much and his thoughts drift inevitably to the man across the sea.)</p><p>-</p><p>Talon is lonely.  And bored.  But mostly lonely.  Kat is gone and Draven is busy and Cass is at a party with her mother— not that he would go to her anyway, after what happened.  So that leaves Darius.  Darius, who is just as bored and just as lonely and is stuck in an office doing paperwork he’d much rather not do.  </p><p>He’s a captain now, courtesy of Swain’s influence and his growing reputation for bravery and ruthlessness.  As such, he is cursed with piles and piles of forms and files and all the things Talon does not— also thanks to Swain’s influence.  A spark of anger flickers within him.</p><p>He can’t even think of Swain without getting mad even though he’d told himself months ago that he wasn’t gonna think about him anymore, that he simply didn’t care.  But he does care and the thought of him still burns, still stings worse than any physical wound ever could.  He supposes that’s why he’s here in the first place, aching for someone else’s touch, anything to numb the pain Swain left in his wake.</p><p>“What’s this about?” Darius asks as Talon strolls into his office with a quick <em> hey. </em>  He plops down on one of Darius’s cushy one-seaters and takes in all the maps that cover his crimson red walls.  It reminds him of Swain’s office, just a bit.  He wonders if that’s where Darius even got these from.</p><p>“I can’t visit you?” Talon asks, glancing at him with a quirked brow.</p><p>“I didn’t say that,” he says and goes back to his forms. “Just surprised is all.”</p><p>Talon hums and watches him quietly.  Everything about him reminds him vaguely of Swain, from the way he clenches his jaw in concentration to the way his nose wrinkles in disgust when his eyes cross over something particularly bothersome.  It makes him wonder who Darius’s soulmate is, whether they’ve met, whether he loves them, whether they’re good for him or not.</p><p>“What are your words?” he asks absently.  It’s a personal question, but Talon figures Darius would tell him if he went too far.</p><p>“What prompted that?” Darius laughs and Talon doesn’t miss the way his fist clenches over his pen.</p><p>“Just wondering,” he says and stares at the wall.  Darius seems to weigh the pros and cons of telling him in his head before speaking.</p><p>Slowly, he says, “What’re yours?”</p><p><em> “I’ve been looking for you for some time, boy,” </em> Talon says, mimicking Swain’s low baritone.  He doesn’t care anymore, doesn’t give a shit if Darius knows or Cass knows or if the whole of Noxus knows anymore.  </p><p>“Oh,” Darius murmurs. “That’s—”</p><p>“Rough.  I know,” he says, ignoring the way his cheeks burn.  He must know now of his shame, that even his own soulmate didn’t want him. “ Now yours?”</p><p>There’s a pause before he speaks, hesitant, but Darius has never been a coward.</p><p><em> “Surrender, Noxian,” </em> he says only.  Talon looks at him.</p><p>“Have you met them?” he asks slowly.</p><p>“I did.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“And it didn’t work.”</p><p>When he blinks, he sees Swain.</p><p>“Why not?” he whispers.  His heart races for reasons he can’t explain.</p><p>Darius’s jaw clenches and lips thin.</p><p>“Duty came first,” he says, and then there is silence.</p><p>Darius turns back to his papers and the sound of his pen against parchment is the only thing that fills the room.  It gives Talon time to think, time that he doesn’t want.  He wonders if that’s how Swain sees it, sees them.  As just another obstacle in the way of duty and empire and conquest.  As some frivolous attachment that he could do without.  The thought stings.</p><p>“How do you— <em> deal?” </em> Talon asks.  Darius looks up.  Levels him with an even stare that reminds him way too much of Kat.</p><p>“He’ll come back, Talon,” he says. “And when he does, you’ll be there.  Talk to him.  Write him.  And then—” He pauses, voice weak for a mere second. “Then whatever happens, you’ll know that you did what you could.” He sounds pained when he speaks, honest, as if remembering someone from long ago.  Talon finds he likes this side of him.  (Wishes he saw it in Swain.)</p><p>“Okay,” Talon says. “Okay.”</p><p>He leaves soon after, plans abandoned.</p><p>-</p><p>He does write him, in the end.</p><p>
  <strike> <em> Hey  </em> </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike> <em> Dear Swain,  </em> </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike> <em> Swain—  </em> </strike>
</p><p>
  <em> Hi Swain, </em>
</p><p><strike><em> I miss you. </em></strike> <em>   It’s been a while.  I hope you get this.  Hope you read it.  But I guess if you’re seeing this, then you are reading it.  Sorry.  I just— this is hard for me.   </em></p><p><em> It’s just that </em> <strike><em> you promised </em></strike> <em> you left so quick and I don’t know what I did wrong.  I don’t know what you’re thinking right now and I wish I did.  I wish you would talk to me, like you do with Master Du Couteau, because I’m so lost and I don’t know what to think or what to do and </em> <strike><em> all I can think of is you </em></strike> <em> I wish you were here so we could talk about it or something. </em></p><p><em> I know you keep saying that I’m too young and dumb and don’t know what I want but I’m not anymore, Swain, I promise.  I’m not a kid anymore and maybe I’m a little dumb but I’m smart enough and old enough to know that it’s you that I want, you that I need.  I’ve known it for a while now.  For years.  I can’t sleep without dreaming of you, can’t close my eyes without seeing you </em> <em><strike> leave</strike></em><em>.  I wish you were here. </em></p><p><em> You keep saying I’m gonna realize I don’t need you or want you or whatever but how are we supposed to know if we don’t try?  Why are you so scared of even trying?  I </em> <em><strike> know</strike> </em> <em> think you want me like I want you so why can’t you just let yourself be happy?  Why is it so hard to be honest with me?  I’m your </em> <em><strike> soulmate</strike> </em> <em> ward, don’t I deserve more? </em></p><p>
  <em> Sorry if this didn’t make much sense.  I know you hate my writing.  I just— Darius told me to write to you.  He said he lost his soulmate a long time ago and it made me think of you and losing you and I—  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I don’t know what I would do without you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So.  Yeah.  Write back soon, I guess.  If you want.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Please come home. </em>
</p><p>
  <strike> <em> I love you. </em> </strike>
</p><p>
  <em> I miss you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Talon </em>
</p><p>-</p><p>The letter lies open on Swain’s desk, the only one out of the hundreds he’s opened and folded and set neatly back onto the table the lies in the center of the tent.  He’s read it a million times already, going over the lines he’s memorized by now, eyes pausing over every scribbled out word, mark burning as he remembers the way Talon had looked at him with such hurt and betrayal and brokenness as he’d left.</p><p>He’s been a fool and he knows it.  He’s certainly had enough time to realize it.</p><p>He drifts back to his desk for what feels like the hundredth time.  He will go home, he decides, after the Placidium.  It is the last Ionian stronghold, the last beacon of hope for these hopeless creatures before they finally accept the inevitable.  They will wait for the last of the rebels there, will burn it into the ground as an offering to the Empire, to the boy— <em> the man— </em>he left waiting at home.</p><p><em> Talon, </em> he writes, late into the night.  He tells him he misses him too, that he regrets much, regrets running.  He tells him he’s sorry and that he’ll be home soon and then they can talk for as long as he wants, as long as they need, because they’ll have all the time in the world and Swain won’t run again.  He tells him about the last ambush they’re planning at some Ionian holy site, that it will end all of this once and for all, and how afterwards, Swain will be all his.  He tells him a lot of things.  He tells him—</p><p>He tells him he loves him.</p><p>He tucks it into his coat before he can send it.  It’s not enough, he thinks, to write about such things; he tells himself he will tell Talon all of it in person once he sails back, victorious and repentant.</p><p>-</p><p>The night is cold as Swain stands at the peak of the Placidium, looking out onto the path, scattered campfires dotting the once peaceful landscape.</p><p>Swain’s mind is spinning and he’s <em> restless, </em> can feel the tension thrumming beneath his skin, the anticipation.  They are waiting for the last of the Ionian forces— if they can even be called that.  They are peasants, farmers; they are nothing to the might of Noxus, nothing in the face of Swain’s sharp mind and brutal efficiency.  He burns everything in his path, destroys everything keeping him from the only thing he’s ever truly wanted in life.</p><p>In less than three days he will be home, will be safe in Talon’s arms again, will apologize for all that he has put him through with his words, his hands, his mouth.  They’ll make up for lost time together and everything will be okay again.  </p><p>“You should sleep, General,” his attendant says, before he retires to his own tent.  He hums quietly and dismisses him with the wave of the hand, wishing him goodnight.</p><p>He goes to bed soon after.  When he closes his eyes, all he sees is Talon.</p><p>-</p><p>The city is still alive when Talon curls up on the couch, arm thrown over his forehead.  He can hear the faraway chatter of the bustling crowds outside.  It is the anniversary of Darkwill’s ascent to the throne and as such, Noxus Prime is alight with fireworks and celebrations.  It is strange to Talon that the man is glorified so when Master Du Couteau seems to think he’s going senile, but he supposes it’s less about the emperor and more about an excuse to have fun.</p><p>He should be out there now, drinking and laughing and partying with Marcus and Soreana and Kat and Darius, but instead he’s here, sulking.  Kat tried to drag him along to her father’s house for their party, but Talon had wanted to stay home, had insisted she go on without him.  She wasn’t happy about it, of course, but left him anyway, after telling him he was welcome any time if he changed his mind.</p><p>He thinks of Swain, as he lies there.  He wonders what’s become of that letter, if Swain got it, if Swain even read it.  He wonders where he is and what he’s doing, if he’s safe, if he’s eating right, if he’s doing well.  Wonders if Swain’s thinking the same about him.  Wonders if he’s even on Swain’s mind right now.  </p><p>(He hopes he is.)</p><p>Talon misses him, despite himself.  He’s been left behind again without a word, the one promise Swain made him broken.  He should be angry, should be furious, but it’s been two months and now he is just lonely and tired and numb.  It’s his fault, anyway.  Kat won’t say it, but he knows she’s thinking it.  She told him this would happen a million times over and still he thought things would change, like an idiot, like a lovesick child.</p><p>He doesn’t know why he continues to believe.  Why he forgives him.</p><p>(He does.)</p><p>He loves him still, after everything.  Loves the way his lips quirk up when Talon says something he finds funny, loves the deep rumble of his laughter when he makes a dumb comment, the way his cheeks flush a lovely pink every time Talon presses his body flush against Swain’s back.  He loves the rush of fondness that courses through him when Swain goes off on a tangent about politics and history and modern architecture or rambles on about a particularly brilliant plan he’s formulated, but will never execute.</p><p>Inevitably his thoughts drift back to that night, of Swain’s calloused hands gripping his hips, of his lips trailing soft kisses down his chest and stomach, mouth sucking bruises into the crook of his neck.  He thinks of Swain’s broad chest against his as he takes him, the way he’d pressed his lips into his neck and whispered sweet promises and loving endearments in his ear like it meant something, like he was <em> ready. </em></p><p>He falls asleep after that and pretends it doesn’t hurt as much as it does that he wasn’t.</p><p>-</p><p><em> I’m sorry, </em> he thinks, as the girl sends blade after blade through his flesh, blood seeping out of every incision.  <em> I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, </em> he thinks, as she tears into him, gouging his wounds open a million times over.  <em> I’m sorry I didn't give you what you deserved, </em> he thinks, when she rends him limb from limb, when she takes his arm in a flurry of movements, flashes of cold steel leaving only death in their wake.</p><p>The girl stands over him, bloodied blades gleaming in the sunlight, her dark hair flapping in the wind, a mix of blue and pink.  In her hand is his arm, held high over her head.  It’s the one with his soulmark, the one that connects him to Talon, that marks him as <em> his. </em>  </p><p>She holds it over her head for all of Ionia to see, so the First Lands will bear witness to her victory, a testament to the strength of these unworthy peasants and their hopeless cause.  It tells them that their fight is not over, that their story does not end here.</p><p>It tells Swain that he has lost.  That he will die with only bitter regret, never taking what should always have been his, never knowing if he could have truly been happy.</p><p>He will die with the knowledge that he broke the only person that mattered.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>uh so this took me way longer than expected n i also did not finish so looks like it's gonna be 5 chapters instead of 4.  i legit spent forever writing and redrafting the way i wanted this to end so here we are oops.  anyway.  hope u like n let me know ur thoughts '-'</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Talon is washing the dishes when he feels it, that almost palpable sense of loss, like a part of him’s been ripped out, leaving only emptiness and a dull ache in its wake.  He’s not sure what it is— just that something’s happened, something’s gone wrong, something that leaves his heart pounding and ears ringing like he’s been shot.</p><p>He slips into the bathroom not long after and hopes Kat doesn’t notice the way his hands almost tremble as they reach for the handle and lock the door behind him.  He’s shaking when he faces the mirror, fingers reaching down toward his waistband and lifting up the hem of his shirt just enough to see his words.</p><p><em> I’ve been looking for you for some time, boy, </em> the words say, gray instead of black, faded where they should be bold.</p><p>-</p><p>He gets the news two days later:  Swain’s battalion was overrun, his men slaughtered, their ships ruined.  </p><p>“And Swain?” Talon asks, quietly, willing his voice not to shake.  He stands before Darkwill’s war council, fingers gripping the edge of the table and eyes downcast so his commanders will not see his fear.  He can feel Marcus’s pitying gaze burning a hole into his head like he can see right through him. It seems like an eternity before anyone speaks.  It makes him want to scream.</p><p>“Dead, if we are lucky,” Darkwill says. “Who knows what those savages will do with him should he have survived?”</p><p>Rage and grief and indignance burn through him like a wildfire at the words and his lips are moving before he can think when Marcus places a hand on his shoulder.</p><p>“I believe it would be best if you retired for the evening,” his master says, voice low, leaving no room for protest. “Don’t you think?”</p><p>His heart pounds in his chest.  He wonders if anyone else knows of Swain’s worth, <em> truly </em> knows, because they can’t, can they?  Not when they’re all standing here, arms crossed, heads bowed in resignation as if they’d lost a particularly expensive piece of weaponry instead of marching to Ionia and bringing him home.</p><p>“Yes, master,” he says, finally, and when he turns to go, he can feel every eye on him, sharp as knives.</p><p>-</p><p>“Do you think he thought of me, in the end?” Talon whispers, staring up at Kat’s ceiling.  He’s lying on her bed, listening to the scratch of pen on parchment as Katarina sits quietly at her desk.</p><p>“Stop talking like that,” she says, pausing. “He could still be alive.”</p><p>“He’s—”</p><p><em> Dead, </em> he thinks, but he can’t bring himself to say it, because then it would be true, it would be real, it would permanent.  He can feel the thud of his heartbeat against his chest and shuts his eyes.  He can feel the tears threatening to spill over and squeezes his eyes closed as if it would stop them, as if it would bring him back.</p><p>“You don’t <em> know </em> that.”</p><p>“I do,” he says stubbornly. “I do.  I do and I wish I didn’t.”  Because why else would his words be gray, why else would he feel that <em> loss, </em> that piercing, jagged loss that threatens to expose his love for the weakness that it was, that it never felt like until now?</p><p>She stops then and faces him, frowning. </p><p>“Stop,” she says, like it’s an order. “Don’t.  Don’t do this to yourself.  We don’t <em> know.” </em></p><p>He inhales and exhales, each breath a reminder of his loss.  He thinks of Swain, of the way he would smile at him affectionately as he slipped into his office, of the way he tensed and relaxed beneath his touch, of the way he’d laughed warmly at every one of his awful jokes and nodded thoughtfully as they devised military strategies.</p><p>He thinks of the way it felt to be close to him, to lean into the warmth of his chest and feel <em> home. </em>  For just a moment, he can pretend he’s here now, lying next to him, body solid and warm against his, the steady beat of his heart like music to his ears.  </p><p>“My words are— my words are faded,” he confesses, for the first time.</p><p>She doesn’t say anything for a while.  Instead she crosses the room and settles down next to him, mattress dipping under her weight.  Her fingers thread through his hair; it reminds Talon of Swain, of the way he’d absently run his hands through his messy hair while he read, even though he hadn’t done that since he was a child.</p><p>“We don’t know,” she repeats, after a moment, and for now, Talon is too tired to argue.</p><p>-</p><p>In Swain’s dreams, they’re in his bedroom again, fire crackling in the hearth, moonlight streaming gently in through the windows as ravens flutter hurriedly by.  They’re lying atop his sheets, half-naked and carelessly exposed to the other in a way they wouldn’t be with anyone else.  Talon rests his head on Swain’s chest, listening in contented silence, breath warm against his skin as he exhales.</p><p>He runs his fingers through Talon’s hair, taking in the soft hum it elicits with pleasant satisfaction, and lets himself bathe in the warmth of the fire, of the boy beside him and all his affection guiltlessly.  It feels nice.  Different.  Pure.</p><p>They stay just like that for a while, until Swain feels Talon’s fingers dancing lightly over his stomach, tips grazing his flesh just enough for his breath to catch.  His palm flattens against his skin, and Swain lets Talon explore the planes of his chest without a word until his hand dips lower and lower still, until it stops tauntingly over his growing hardness.</p><p>He moans despite himself, and Talon turns himself over to rest on his belly, chin coming to rest on Swain’s chest.  He’s looking at him now, but Swain can’t quite make out his features, the haze of arousal and need blurring his senses.  He’s not sure of anything, if any of this is real; all he knows is that he wants, <em> needs </em> Talon, needs him now, needs him always, in this life and the next.</p><p>All of it is a blur after that.  He finds himself kneeling over Talon’s pliant body, hips slotted between his thighs, Talon’s heels digging into his back and arms slung lazily over his shoulders, pulling him closer and closer into him, face buried in the crook of his neck.  He feels Talon’s wicked lips just a breath away from his ear, gasping out promises and endearments and everything he’s ever wanted to hear, until it becomes all too much for him.</p><p>He watches, enrapt, as Talon throws his head back in pleasure, at the fragile expanse of his neck, soft and vulnerable, only for him.  </p><p>“I love you,” Talon gasps, desperate and urgent and pleading.  He tilts his head forward to look at him, to press their foreheads together like they had before, and now every feature is crystal clear, the gentle haze fading away like mist.  “I love you, <em> I love you.” </em></p><p>He wants to say it back, to tell him all the things he should have so long ago, but when he tries to speak, it’s like every muscle in him freezes.  He can’t move, can’t speak, can’t lift a finger to let him know all that he’s ever deserved to hear.</p><p>“Please,” Talon begs, and when Swain says nothing, <em> “Please.” </em></p><p><em> Just say it back.  You can do that, can’t you? </em> </p><p>He’s spent his whole life avoiding the words, denying his feelings, denying the undeniable, and now that he is ready, now that he <em> wants </em> it, wants it so bad it <em> hurts, </em> he can’t.  He’s forced to watch in wretched detail as Talon’s delicate smile twists into something like pain, like grief, like <em> anguish. </em></p><p>He wants to wipe away that frown, to kiss away the quivering of his lips and tell him that he’s all that he wants, that there’s no need for tears here, not when they’re both here and happy and <em> together. </em>  But his body does not obey and his muscles stay frustratingly, maddeningly still.</p><p>“Okay,” Talon breathes.  He tears himself out of Swain’s grasp, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand, lost to the wind.  He wants to reach for him.  He wants to grab him by the hand and pull him close and never let him go, not while he still leaves, but he <em> can’t. </em></p><p>It’s only when Talon reaches the door that he finds himself again, and he rushes after him, except suddenly they’re back in the warehouse where they met so long ago with the wind howling through the cracks in the wall and the rain dripping through the ceiling.  Talon stands just in the doorway, back turned to him, cloak fluttering in the wind, their positions reversed.</p><p>“Boy,” he starts and tries to keep the panic from his voice. “Talon— please.  Come back, I—” </p><p>And even now, the words refuse to come out.</p><p>Talon stops.  Turns.  Looks at him with nothing but bitterness and anger and hate.  His mouth runs dry and guilt floods his every thought.  He turns again, this time to leave, and a part of him knows that if Swain lets him go now, he won’t ever come back.</p><p>This time, he moves.  He hurries toward him, fingers wrapping around Talon’s slender wrist before he can disappear.  </p><p>“Talon— wait,” he tries, but Talon wrenches his arm violently away from him and stumbles backwards, the distance between them suffocating.</p><p>“Get away from me,” he hisses, venomous and vicious, twisting all he ever found good about his mark into something vile— tainted and full of hate. “Who are you?”</p><p>“What?  I—” he starts, but the words seem to jumble up in his mouth.  It’s as if his wits have left him, as if all his natural charisma and affinity for speaking has faded away like a distant memory.   Desperation rises within him.  As panic floods him, all he can think to do is hold out his arm to show him his mark, but when he lifts the limb, there is nothing but stump, blood black as the midnight skies, spilling out onto the floor and <em> rising, rising, rising. </em></p><p>Darkness floods the room, consuming everything in sight, until there is nothing left but a crimson glow and the distant echo of words lost to history.</p><p>-</p><p>They bring him home not three days later, and Talon rides back to the estate the moment he hears of his return, heart pounding and hair rippling in the wind.</p><p><em> He’s alive, </em>he thinks, and he clings to that thought all the way home.</p><p>Marcus and Soreana are already there when he arrives.  They’re arguing about something— Talon can tell— but as soon as they see him, they school their expressions into something more even, something more like the cool, collected mentors they always had been when he was younger.</p><p>“Where is he?” Talon asks, <em> demands. </em> “What happened to him?”</p><p>They say nothing, for a moment, and Talon doesn’t miss the way Soreana averts her gaze when he looks at her, scarlet hair falling loosely over her eyes.  It sends a rush of panic coursing through him, because <em> no, </em> this wasn’t supposed to happen, it wasn’t supposed to end this way.  Swain can’t be dead.  Not now, not just as he’d begun to believe again.  They were supposed to have their whole lives ahead of them.</p><p>“Inside,” Marcus says, strained. “There was a— a peasant girl.  Butchered him on the steps of some wretched temple and left him to die. He is— they don’t know if he will ever wake up.  But he will never be the same.”</p><p>His heart sinks.  It’s not— he can’t— </p><p>“What does that mean?”</p><p>“He’s lost his arm, boy,” Marcus says. “He will never serve again, not after this— this disgrace.”</p><p>Disbelief tinges the statement.  In a way, it’s comforting; that Marcus saw Swain somewhat the way he did— strong, infallible, <em> perfect— </em>tells him that perhaps he was not completely naive, that he is not alone in his grief.</p><p>A part of him hears the words and <em> hopes, </em> hopes that means he will wake up, that he will be okay, that it doesn’t matter if he’s lost his arm, if he can’t continue his work, because at least he’ll be alive, at least he’ll be here, at least he’ll be <em> his. </em></p><p>Marcus doesn’t speak after that.  It’s like the whole of Noxus is holding its breath when he enters; the house is completely still.  Everything is just as he left it:  neatly placed and organized as Swain always insisted.  For a moment he can almost pretend nothing is wrong, that if he slips past Swain’s bedroom door, he’d catch him getting ready for the day, just like normal.</p><p>Talon walks slowly, hesitantly, toward Swain’s bedroom door.  He’s terrified of what he will see beyond it, if he will even recognize the face that brought him here, that made him who he is today.  He worries about his arm, worries about his future, if he will even have one after this.</p><p>He pushes open the door, the creak of it grating on him.</p><p>“Swain,” he breathes.</p><p>There is only a stump where is arm once was, covered in bandages.  There are bandages everywhere— not just his arm.  They wrap around his head, concealing gashes that peek out from beneath white cloth, and curl around his chest.  There are smaller cuts everywhere, still red and raised, and fear shoots through him.</p><p>He hurries to his side, fingers darting to his torso, tracing the scars the litter his perfect skin.  Talon takes in every detail of him, like this is his last chance, like if he blinks, if he lets go for even a second, he will lose him forever, the memory of him lost to time.</p><p>“Swain,” he whispers. “You’re gonna be okay.  Everything’s gonna be okay.”</p><p>He repeats the words again and again until he can lie to himself and pretend he believes it.  Collapsing into the chair beside him, he forces himself to say it and mean it.  He wishes Swain would wake up and tell him, because Swain was never wrong, Swain was never weak, Swain was— Swain was invincible.  He would want him to be strong, even now, so he tries, and when he buries his head into the sheets and cries, he hopes Swain cannot hear it now.</p><p>-</p><p>He does not leave his side for many days.  He receives no missions, no tasks, nothing.  Nobody disturbs them save the Marcus, Katarina, and the doctors Marcus had personally entrusted Swain’s status to.  He does not trust the staff Darkwill sends; he turns them away at every moment and Talon does not care enough to ask why.</p><p>Marcus and Katarina stay in the house with him day and night:  Marcus manages Swain’s affairs while he is out and Katarina takes care of him where he would not take care of himself.  She brings him food and reminds him to eat and tells him that everything’s gonna be alright.  It’s a wonder she’s not called away, but a part of him thinks that she has been, but does not care.</p><p>It is only later that he finds it strange that Soreana and Cassiopeia do not join them.  Marcus does not let them.</p><p>-</p><p>“You can’t,” Talon whispers, when they are alone. “You can’t die, not here.  Not now.  We were— we never—”</p><p>-</p><p>“You said you wouldn’t leave,” he hisses, deep into the night, when he is certain everyone is asleep. “You promised.  <em> You promised. </em>   Never again, you said.  You <em> swore.” </em></p><p>He squeezes Swain’s limp hand.  He receives no answer.</p><p>-</p><p>At the end of the first week, Talon crawls under the sheets beside him, resting his head over Swain’s bare chest to listen to his heartbeat.  It’s slow and weak, but it’s there, and that’s all that matters.  His scars have mostly healed and the doctors have removed every wrapping, save the one around his head and around his arm.</p><p>He presses his body against Swain’s, relishing in the heat.  He closes his eyes and dreams they are somewhere else:  a different place, a different time, a different world.</p><p>-</p><p>“If you didn’t leave—” he starts, angry. “If you had just <em> faced </em> it, none of this would have happened.”</p><p>He squeezes his eyes and clenches his fists and wishes it hadn’t.</p><p>-</p><p>“I’ll never disobey you again,” he says. “I swear.  I swear, <em> please, </em> just come back.”</p><p>-</p><p>“Wake up,” he begs, after two weeks have passed. “Please wake up.  I’ll never— <em> do </em> anything like that again, if you come back.  I promise I’ll stop if that’s what you want, I promise.”</p><p>-</p><p>The sheets are cold against his cheek, stained with tears.</p><p>“Come back to me,” Talon pleads, but there is no one there to hear him.</p><p>-</p><p>“You can’t live like this,” Kat says quietly. “There’s nothing you can do for him here.”</p><p>He knows she’s right, but it still hurts, this powerlessness.</p><p>“What if he wakes up?”</p><p>“Then you’ll see him after.”</p><p>“He needs me.”</p><p>“It’s been weeks.  He—”</p><p>“He what?”</p><p>“Nevermind.”</p><p>She sighs.  The door clicks shut as she leaves.</p><p>-</p><p>Kat’s right.  He’s not helping anyone here.  He’s not doing anything but sitting and sulking and soaking in his own hurt.  He’s sitting here while that girl still lives, while Swain’s <em> killer </em> still leaves.  It’s then that he makes up his mind.  He will kill the beast that did this to him, will burn and raze and destroy all of Ionia before he lets this nameless girl get away with what she’s done.</p><p>The missive from Darkwill only strengthens his conviction.</p><p>He stands.  It’s hours past midnight and both Kat and Marcus should be asleep by now.  He squeezes Swain’s hand one last time before pulling away.</p><p>“I’ll be back soon,” he says, on the off chance he is conscious, that he can hear him.  It is wishful thinking and Swain would tell him that he knows better than that, but for now he doesn’t care, for now he clings to whatever leaves him just barely okay.</p><p>Talon slips out of the room quietly, glancing once more at Swain’s sleeping figure, at the cuts that will never fully heal.  At the stump that used to bear his words.  Instinctively, his fingers drift to his hip.  <em> God, </em> just the thought of him aches.  He tears his gaze away.</p><p>He walks to his room, careful not to make a sound so that the floorboards will not give him away.  He stuffs what little clothes he needs into the leather satchel Swain had gifted him right before his first mission and inhales, letting his eyes fall shut.</p><p>He will find her.</p><p>He will find her.</p><p>
  <em> He will find her. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When he wakes up, he’s in his bedroom, sheets pulled up to his chest.  Swain blinks.  He is alone, but there is a chair pulled up to his bed and a single Shuriman dagger sitting on his beside table.  <em> Talon, </em> he thinks helplessly.  <em> Where is he?  What happened? </em></p><p>He tries to push himself up, and suddenly, it all comes back to him in an instant:  that night, that morning, that letter, that <em> girl. </em>   Every panicked thought seems to flood his head at once—of the war, of his men, of his <em> arm— </em> and at the end of it all, all he can do is wonder if Talon’s okay, if he’s even here now, or if he’d left without ever <em> knowing. </em>   Every time he blinks, he sees him and that look of resignation, of hurt, and knows that he can’t die— <em> couldn’t </em> die— without fixing things.</p><p>He falls back into the sheets and coughs.  Coughs and coughs and coughs, until it devolves into nothing but a choking fit.  A part of him is glad Talon is not here at the exact moment, if only so he could not see him in this state:  weak and helpless.  (The other part, the weaker part, misses him, wishes he were here to comfort him, though he does not deserve it.)</p><p>As he adjusts to his surroundings, it’s as if he suddenly remembers his mortality and thinks <em>water,</em> <em>I need water.</em>  His throat is dry and his stomach growls with hunger.  He looks to his arm, the one with his mark, the one he lost in his arrogance and foolishness, the one that will forever remind of him his most costly mistake.  It is a wonder he did not lose more.</p><p>Stubbornly, he tries once again to sit up.  He pushes the sheets off his body and tries not to look too long at the scars that cover his body, most white and faded, others red and jagged.  How long he’d been out, he does not know, just that his body aches with disuse as he gets to his feet and ambles slowly toward the door. </p><p>He should get water, water and food and something to deal with this <em> damned </em> headache, but instead, he finds himself walking slowly toward the bedroom down the hall, to the room he’d left empty for so long until Talon came along and gave him something to <em> care </em> about.  He doesn’t know what he expects to find when he pushes it open.  Talon sleeping?  Talon perched on his bed, wide awake and thinking about him?  Talon packing, ready to leave and never coming back?</p><p>It’s empty, when he enters, but by no means untouched.  The drawers are thrown open, clothes lying on the bed haphazardly, and his satchel is missing.  So he’s away.  A day trip?  A mission?  It has to be.  <em> It has to be, </em> he tells himself, when his mind drifts back to the entirely possible and entirely horrifying other possibility.</p><p>His head pulses at the thought and for a moment, he shuts his eyes, except in the darkness, there is something there, something that shouldn’t be, something dark and sinister and <em> red, red, red. </em>  He steadies himself against the door.  His eyes fly open.  </p><p><em> I must be delirious, </em> he thinks and stumbles toward the kitchen, hand never leaving the walls until he gets to the cabinets.  When he reaches for the glass, it’s like something in his skull cracks, and all he sees is a pair of glowing red eyes in the darkness, as the cup shatters against his floors.  He’s leaning against the countertops when Marcus and Katarina come rushing in, eyes wide with surprise and concern.</p><p>“Swain, you’re—” </p><p>“Yes, yes, now get that cleaned up,” Marcus snaps, hurrying towards him. “Come, sit.”</p><p>Everything seems to shift beneath him as Marcus guides him over the glass, until suddenly, he finds himself seated in the living room, a cold glass of water in hand.  Marcus sits close to him, and even through this haze, Swain can see the relief in his eyes.  He smiles, and hopes it doesn’t look nearly as pathetic as he feels.</p><p>“You’ve been gone for too long, my friend,” Marcus says, after a moment. “We’ve missed you.  <em> I’ve </em> missed you.”  A pause.  Slow, but telling.  Then, quietly, “Talon has missed you.”</p><p>“Talon,” he breathes, a sort of clarity washing over him. “Where…?”</p><p>For a moment, there is silence.  Marcus looks away and sighs.</p><p>“He left in the night,” he says evenly. “To Ionia, on Darkwill’s orders, I found— with great difficulty, mind you; Darkwill didn’t want him to be found and it seems your boy didn’t either.  He’s likely on that wretched island by now.  Listen, my friend—”</p><p>“He sent him alone?” Swain asks, suddenly afraid, <em> terrified, </em> when there’s no reason to be.  Talon is no child, he reminds himself; he is quick and clever, dangerous and <em> strong. </em>   It is nothing unsual for him to be sent alone, but still he worries, because he is <em> his, </em> and what if— what if— “And you let him go?”</p><p>“Yes,” Marcus says, sharply. “What choice did I have?  Did you expect me to defy our <em> esteemed </em> emperor?  I could not.  Not without you.  We have been betrayed, Swain.  He tried to <em> kill </em> you.  Darkwill is nothing but a treacherous rat; I always knew it, and I’ve been <em> dealing </em> with it in your absence.”</p><p>The revelation is worrisome and he should be furious, furious that all of it was a set-up, that Darkwill dared plot against him, that for all his loyalty, it still came down to this.  And he is.  For all his stifling of emotions, he <em> is </em> angry, <em> insulted. </em>   But above all of that, there is <em> fear. </em>   He worries for Talon’s safety, because with him out of the way, what other target is there, but his heir— his young, impressionable, <em> reckless </em> heir, who would go with him until the end?  Who would kill for him, die for him— him and only him, not Darkwill, not Noxus, just <em> him, </em> despite everything?</p><p>“I must go after him,” he says. “They will kill him, they—”</p><p>“I’ll go.”  Katarina stands in the kitchen, arms crossed.  Marcus gives her a look, but she is only looking at Swain. “I’ll bring him back.  I swear.”</p><p>The promise alone is comforting.</p><p>“Fine,” Marcus says, after a moment, before turning back to Swain. “But we cannot let this stand.”</p><p>“Agreed,” Swain murmurs, and with that, they begin, and for the last time, he pushes Talon to the back of his mind.</p><p>-</p><p>“He didn’t leave your side, you know,” Marcus says quietly, days later, when they are sitting in his office.  Scars still litter every inch of his skin and though he will never admit it, he feels weakness creeping into his bones, uninvited.</p><p>He hums, noncommittal, and pretends he doesn’t feel all the guilt bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to spill over into a frown.  Just the idea of it— Talon curled up by his side, worried for him, <em> caring </em> after everything— makes his heart ache.  He wishes he were here now; he left so much unsaid, hurt him in ways he doesn’t quite know how to fix, and all he wants now is to make things right.  </p><p>He wants— <em> needs </em> him.  Here.  Safe.  The loss of his arm hurt, the loss of their bond worse, but if he lost <em> him, </em> lost Talon, he doesn’t— wouldn’t— </p><p>“He’s going to be okay,” Marcus huffs, as if reading his mind.  It seems it’s a skill that runs in the family. “Despite my… reservations, I do believe she will bring him back.”</p><p>“She is capable,” Swain says shortly, without looking away from the letter he is writing.  He is both infinitely grateful and regretful that it was his left arm he took; at least, he thinks, he will not embarrass himself when he writes to request support in their cause.</p><p>It is silent for a while, and it gives him time to think.  Will Talon even want him when he returns?  What if he doesn’t want to come back?  What if he’s given up on him, realized he’s given him far too many chances than he deserves, than <em> Talon </em> deserves, and finally left?</p><p>“It is alright,” Marcus says. “To be afraid.”</p><p>Swain laughs, mirthless and bitter.</p><p>“Is it?” he asks, not expecting an answer. “When I am less afraid for his life than I am of the possibility that he will never look at me that way again?”</p><p>“Yes,” Marcus murmurs, and then there is silence.</p><p> -</p><p>That night, Swain dreams of ink black ravens and red eyes— a promise of something more— and when he finds himself deep within the Immortal Bastion, body restored and mind filled with knowledge beyond comprehension, he feels assurance like never before.</p><p>-</p><p>When Talon arrives, the camp stinks of blood and shit.  There are wounded everywhere, medics tended to the ones left behind.  The last ship to Noxus leaves tomorrow and Talon wonders if, perhaps, it would be a mercy if they <em> didn’t </em> return.  There is no life for them in Noxus now.  Not for the lowborn cripples, not for Swain, not anymore.  </p><p>Weakness has no place in Noxus, and yet just the thought of Swain, outcast and humiliated and <em> broken </em> makes him question what weakness really is.</p><p>Anxiety thrums through his veins as he walks through the camp, hood up, clean blue and silver armor a sharp contrast to the Noxian red tents, stained with dirt and blood and soot.  He steps inside the commander’s tent, the Emperor’s sealed letter in hand, and clears his throat.</p><p>The commander looks up from his papers.</p><p>“Yes?” he scoffs. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”</p><p>“Darkwill sent me,” Talon says, refusing to be cowed.  He hands the man the letter and crosses his arms. “You are to give me all the resources and information I require.”</p><p>The man frowns and unravels the missive.  He hadn’t thought it possible, but the frown deepens.</p><p>“You are… Swain’s boy?” he asks, an edge to his voice— infuriating for too many reasons at once.</p><p>“What of it?” Talon spits, suddenly defensive.</p><p>The man gives him a thin smile and nods, slipping past him toward the entrance.</p><p>“I will return shortly then,” he says, standing behind him. “Stay here.”</p><p>And with that, he goes, leaving Talon alone yet again.  He’s spent the whole ride here alone, locked in his room except for meals.  He can’t speak to anyone without getting angry, without thinking about Swain, hurt and barely clinging to life, without anyone caring half as much as they should.  It’s as if they don’t understand how important he is, how valuable he was to their nation, to their emperor, to— to <em> him. </em>  </p><p>He slips a blade out of its sheath, spinning it in his fingers, eyeing every little detail and committing it to memory.  It is one of the blades Swain brought back for him, a token of his affection, even if he never said so.  It brings back too many memories, memories of a broad chest and entwined fingers, of two hearts, beating in tandem, of desperate kisses and slow kisses, bruising fingers and gentle ones.  It brings back memories that hurt.  That remind him of all they could have had, if only—</p><p>If only.</p><p>There is so much to be angry about, so much blame to be placed, but all Talon can think of is how badly he needs him now, how much he is willing to forgive in a heartbeat, if only Swain would be okay.  He shuts his eyes and tries to not tremble.  He will not humiliate himself here, will not disgrace Swain by breaking down again and crying like a child. </p><p>He will have his vengeance.  He will make her pay.</p><p>He is so distracted, that when the commander returns, footsteps deliberately softened, yet still easily detectable to Talon, he does not even turn around.  The blade nearly connects with his throat before it falls, limp and useless.  Talon turns around, heart thumping.</p><p>“Kat?” he breathes.  The man’s body falls to the ground before him, and there she is, blades stained red, a pained look on her face. “Why— What are you doing here? And why…”</p><p>“Darkwill ordered your death,” she tells him. “He never intended for you to get revenge.  He took you for a fool.”</p><p>He turns away.  Neither of them speak.  Even now, he can feel the sting of hurt, the <em> accusation, </em> in her tone.  He left her without a word.  Left all of them.  </p><p>“Come home,” she says quietly.</p><p>“You know I can’t,” he murmurs. “Whatever Darkwill wanted— it doesn’t matter.  I can’t— I can’t let his killer walk free.  I will deal with <em> him </em> later.”</p><p>“You speak as if he’s dead.”</p><p>“Is he not?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.  He feels a hand on his shoulder and for a moment, his heart <em> hopes. </em></p><p>“He’s awake,” she breathes, and after that, there is no choice.</p><p>-</p><p><em> Go, </em> Kat had said after leaving him alone on Swain’s doorsteps, late into the evening.  His heart beats fast and hard in his chest, and with Kat’s reassurance that Swain was very much <em> okay, </em> all Talon can think about is whether he’s still the same, whether he wants him still, whether that ever-present guilt still plagues him.</p><p>With every step, he trembles; whether he will be welcomed home or met with cold silence, he does not know.  Even still, he continues, and when he steps inside, the house is quiet, lit only by the fading light of the sunset.  The door to Swain’s office is cracked open, just a bit, where normally it would be clamped shut.  Talon inhales, his heart racing, his mind imagining a million ways this could go wrong.</p><p>He pushes the door open, and when he steps inside, all he sees is <em> him, </em> safe and healed and <em> alive. </em>   Their eyes meet from where Talon stands, helpless, in the doorway to where Swain stands, papers abandoned on his desk.  His heart stutters at the sight of him, familiar dark eyes and hard jaw, softened with something like relief, like affection, like <em> love. </em>  </p><p>Neither of them say a word, and when Talon rushes toward him, thoughtless and desperate, Swain doesn’t move, doesn’t push him away, just wraps his arms around his waist and lets Talon bury his head in his chest, pulling him close and closer still, until there is only <em> him, him, him. </em> </p><p>Talon inhales him, taking in the familiar scent of clean linens and expensive cologne, and lets himself truly breathe for the first time in weeks.  He listens to the thump of Swain’s heartbeat, strong and steady—a reminder that he is alive and well and that all is <em> right. </em>  </p><p>“You came back,” Swain breathes, breaking the silence.  Just the sound of his voice, rough and low, is enough to make tears well up in his eyes, like he is ten years old again and desperate for any form of comfort.  </p><p>“Of course,” he says, willing his voice not to break. “Of course I came back.”</p><p>They don’t move for a while, and Talon relishes in every second spent in his warm embrace, clinging to his heat and memorizing every minute detail, so that if he never feels this again, maybe— just maybe— he’ll be okay.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Swain rasps, and Talon looks up at him, slow and hesitant.  Their breaths intermingle in the space between them, their lips too close for this to be anything but what Talon wants. “I’m sorry for hurting you.  I’m sorry for leaving.”</p><p>“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispers, the words spilling out, an uncontrollable torrent. “<em> You’re </em> okay.  You’re alive. You’re safe.  Just— just tell me it won’t happen again.  Tell me you’ll stay.  Tell me, because I don’t know how to do this anymore.  Swear it and <em> mean </em> it and if you can’t—” The words catch in his throat. “If you can’t, I’ll go and you won’t ever hear of it again.”</p><p>Swain’s lips are moving before even a hint of panic can sprout.  </p><p>“Yes,” he says, a hand coming up to cup his face, warm and calloused just as he remembers. “Yes, I promise, I swear it.  Never again.”</p><p>The words feel true, feel right, feel heavy with guilt and longing and a million other emotions long repressed, and when Talon kisses him, taking all that bitterness and turning it into something pure and innocent, Swain’s heart melts.</p><p>It’s soft and slow and everything Talon’s ever wanted.  He keeps his arms slung over Swain’s shoulders and pulls him closer, down against his lips, tongues entwined, languid, like they have all the time in the world, because this time, they do.</p><p>When Swain pulls away, after what feels like blissful millennia, Talon gazes into his eyes and knows that he’s all he wants, all he’ll ever want.  </p><p>“I’ve missed you dearly,” Swain murmurs, quiet and intimate— a confession.</p><p>“Me too,” he says, and when he goes to entwine their fingers, that’s when he notices it— that heat, that power, that <em> arm. </em>  The stump, gone.  Swain pulls it away when he reaches for it. “What is—?”</p><p>“You’ve been gone a while,” he says, the trace of humor in it warming his heart.  Talon quirks a brow, as Swain explains everything:  his dreams, his demon, his <em> enlightenment. </em>   He learns of the betrayal, of the Black Rose, of that <em> woman, </em> and every word makes him seethe with rage and indignation, ignites a fire in him that will not be so easily quelled.</p><p>“I’ll make them pay for what they’ve done,” Talon swears, clutching Swain’s shirt.  “I’ll kill every last one of them, I promise.”</p><p>“No,” Swain says, and Talon looks up. <em> “We </em> will.  Together.”</p><p>Talon’s breath catches.  He is beautiful like this, fire in his eyes, devotion and passion sending his heart racing with exhilaration, with excitement, with <em> love. </em> </p><p>“Together,” Talon echoes, and it’s a promise.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>AYYY i finished!!  hope y'all like it, let me know what you thought!!  i actually really like this ship soo maybe i'll right more? idk we will see.  until next time :D</p><p>ALSO if you wanna talk to me abt league ships n also look at my questionable art, u can find me on tumblr @airotabee</p>
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